


Stolen

by ambpersand



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Captivity, Dark Peeta Mellark, F/M, Kidnapping, POV Alternating, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22039678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambpersand/pseuds/ambpersand
Summary: One night, 15 year-old Peeta Mellark vanished, kidnapped in the middle of his own neighborhood. Six years later, after a house fire claims a suburban home, he's found unconscious, but alive, in the basement. Struggling with severe emotional trauma and thrust back into the world after being held captive for so long, Peeta doesn't know how to cope. Despite his scars and violent outbursts, he finds comfort in the most unexpected of places- Katniss Everdeen.Warning: Dark!Peeta01/2021: CURRENTLY ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 141
Kudos: 250





	1. One - Peeta

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been around the fandom for a while, you might remember this story! I originally posted the first few chapters in 2013 and somehow lost the outline I had and ended up removing it entirely back in 2017. Well, I've been thinking about it for a long time and I've decided to revamp it and bring it back with a few new changes. I really hope you like it!
> 
> **Warning: This story deals with many sensitive topics such as kidnapping, torture, abuse, and mental, physical, and emotional trauma. Trigger warnings will be applied, but please be aware if these are sensitive subjects for you.**
> 
> 01/2021: CURRENTLY ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you might remember, this is the first two chapters of the original version combined into one. Things will get darker as time goes on, and many sensitive issues will come up. All will be marked appropriately with trigger warnings.
> 
> Each chapter will switch between Peeta and Katniss' POV, and will be marked as so. If you're interested, find me on tumblr under ambpersand!

The overwhelming scent of disinfectant filled my nostrils and lured my brain towards consciousness, making my stomach roll with nausea before I could comprehend what was happening.

It only took a split second of awareness for my body to seize up with agonizing pain. Sharp, stabbing sensations covered most of my body and it felt like my skin was burning with a dull, pulsing ache. My limbs and joints felt stiff and sore, like I’d been beaten.  _ Had I?  _ Trying to sift through the haze of pain and confusion, my head started to pound. I could hear some sort of beeping nearby, and the sound was only making the throbbing behind my eyes worse. 

The beeping was faster now, and it mimicked the thumping inside my chest. Panic was starting to flood my veins, and I needed to figure out what was happening.  _ Where am I? Was it over? _ The adrenaline was beginning to overpower the pain in my body, but I could only clench my fingers. Even the slightest of movements sent new flashes of pain skittering through my system. 

I must have groaned, but the gurgling noise sounded foreign to my ears. I tried to open my eyes, but it felt like the insides of my eyelids had turned to sandpaper. Fighting against it, the bright, white light of the room made my vision blur. 

_ Where am I? _

There was another sound, like footsteps squeaking on tile, and a rustle of fabric next to my body. Whoever had come near me was speaking, but I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Peeta? Peeta, can you hear me?”

Squinting, I tried to get my vision to sharpen. Everything was distorted and out of focus, and it felt like the room was beginning to rock back and forth. I gritted my teeth as I tried to lift my hand to my eyes, but something other than the pain and stiff limbs kept my arm tethered to my side.

The sensation was sharp, like something was stuck on the inner side of my elbow. I reached to take it out, desperate for at least a small amount of relief from the pain, but a hand wrapped around my wrist.

I froze, waiting for the blow to come.

“Peeta, can you hear me?” The voice asked again, persistent. “You can’t take that out; it’s your I.V.”

With every blink, my vision cleared and my eyes adjusted to the light and the room around me. I was lying in a bed, a tall man standing beside it. He looked down, a polite smile on his face.

“My name is Dr. Brening. How are you feeling?” His voice was even and calm.

A doctor?

My eyes were wide, terror filling my stomach with a heavy, sinking feeling. My fists clutched at the sheets on the bed, and I looked around wildly. My heart was beginning to pound even harder, my breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. When his hand reached out towards me I couldn’t stop the involuntary flinch as I ducked to the side, hitting my shoulder on the bed rail as I tried to evade him.

The contact, even through the thin gown I was wearing, made my shoulder erupt in white, hot pain. I couldn’t help but to gasp, the unexpected sensation taking me by surprise. My eyes began to water and the pain spread like wildfire, pulsing through my nerves as I sucked in deep lungfuls of air. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt before, and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I needed to get out of this place and find a place to hide until I could figure out what was going on.

“Peeta, I’m going to need you to calm down. I’m going to give you some more morphine, okay?” 

He kept his distance as he rounded the bed, his hands out in front of him as he moved slowly. I watched, frozen as he picked up a syringe from a nearby cabinet.  _ Is he going to stab me with it _ ? Instead, he inserted it into the port that led to my I.V.

“You’re going to go back to sleep now, okay, Peeta? The pain won’t be as bad,” He looked at me like I was a small child, pity filling his eyes. His voice was soft, but I was still suspicious.  _ Why am I here? _

Even if I could have figured out what to say, my throat felt too dry and raw to form words. I could only hope that this time I wouldn’t wake up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I couldn’t fight the way my eyelids grew heavy, and drowsiness settled over my body like a thick fog. My mind clung to one thought as I drifted into unconsciousness, with both fear and curiosity bubbling within me.

_ Why am I still alive? _

* * *

36 Hours Earlier

I lay in my bed, the mattress lumpy and thin, the dirty sheets threadbare and rough against the back of my arms. I remember the day that they threw them at me from the doorway at the top of the stairs. It had seemed like a gift, then. Like maybe I’d been good enough to earn something nice. That was years ago, though, and the once white fabric was now stained grey with grime. I’d been laying in the same spot for hours, staring at the ceiling as I listened to the noises on the floor above me.

My body was weak; it had been almost three days since I’d been given any food. Usually, I slept, trying to preserve what little energy I had. It was easier that way. The hours would pass faster, and I could ignore the gnawing pains in my stomach. I could escape into my dreams, then, and imagine I wasn’t stuck here. Forever. 

Today, though, sleep escaped me.

I had been awake to hear footsteps above me, signaling they were awake and getting ready for the day. I heard as they shuffled around the house, noisy as usual, like there was nothing amiss going on. I heard the silence as they left for a few hours, making my room eerily quiet. Then, they came home again, resuming the routine and the noise that I had memorized over the last six years down in the basement.

Finally, they quieted. It must be nighttime, but I couldn’t be sure. The only light source in the dank, cold basement was a single light bulb in the ceiling. It reflected dimly off the cement walls, bathing everything in a blue-tinged hue. Even the storm window was sealed off and covered, blocking any light and preventing it from ever being opened again.

I had no watch, no electronics; just a too-small bed, a cheap wooden desk, and a rickety bookshelf that was half-filled with out of date textbooks. In the corner they had pulled the plumbing through the wall, enough to give me a toilet so they didn’t have to bother with me any more than they wanted to.

My room was small and hidden behind the rest of the basement, unknown to anyone else who had ever entered the house. I only knew because they’d bragged about it, boasting that even if the police searched, they would never find my 10 foot by 10 foot prison.

It was all I’d ever had, ever since they brought me here.

Ever since they threw me in this basement the day they took me.

But all day, I lay in bed, going through everything they had ever done. The burns, the cuts, the beatings. The injections that burned my veins and made my vision swim with hallucinations. The outbursts of anger that led them down the stairs and to me, where I got the brunt of their emotions.

The guilt afterwards, giving me extra food and old books to keep myself occupied.

The pain, the scars, and the isolation. I couldn’t take it anymore… It had to end.

I knew what I needed to do. I’d been thinking about it for years, now. I could lean back and fall on the concrete floor, hoping it would crack my head open. I could make a rope from the dirty sheets on the bed, but I didn’t have anything I could easily hang it from. Besides that, though, I knew that I needed something more. Something that wouldn’t just end me. It would end everything.

The fixture on the ceiling was simple; it would be easy enough to rip out if I could reach it. Looking around, I tried to figure out what I could use. The desk might work, if I could get it moved to the right spot. I lifted my body from the bed slowly, flinching at the soreness in my joints. I knew I had to go slow, so I didn’t get tired too quickly, and so I didn’t make too much noise. I would only have one shot. If they heard and caught me, it wouldn't just be another beating. They'd take everything and make me sleep on the floor. They'd inject me with more drugs and force me to watch horrible things until I clawed at my face and woke up with blood and skin underneath my nails. They would laugh as I went mad, then leave me to rot in the dark. Alone. 

Luckily, my bed was to the side and I only needed to move the desk a few feet, towards the center of the room. My emotions were gone; the task felt like the most logical step.

The feet of the desk scraped against the floor as I began to push it forward, and I paused. After a tense moment of silence, I realized no one had heard. I’d always assumed that they somehow soundproofed this room, and maybe they had. It had kept anyone outside the house from hearing my screams, so the noise must not travel that much. After a moment I resumed, and inch by inch, I pressed my slight weight against it until it sat in the middle of the room, directly under where I needed to be.

Lifting myself on top of the wooden surface, I hoped the cheap material could hold my weight. I couldn’t stop the dry laugh that bubbled up like a choke in my throat, since my body had long since withered down to skin and bones. Any muscle mass that I’d had as a teenager had disappeared with the meager amounts of food I’d been allowed.

Now it would work in my favor.

I was tall enough to reach the ceiling and the bulb now, but I realized that as soon as I ripped it from its place, I would be plunged into darkness. I moved a ceiling tile out of the way, satisfied when I saw the old insulation above it. I pulled some towards me, knowing I wouldn’t be able to see it well enough when the time came.

Hoping it didn’t make too much noise, I grabbed the edges of the base and pulled sharply, satisfied when it slipped through the cheap PVC tile. It was still connected, and I took a moment to feel around the wires to make sure I knew which ones to hold on to. It was a guess, but it was all I had. They hadn’t cared much about craftsmanship when they built my little prison cell, and tonight it was working in my favor. Everything in here was old and cheap, and I knew that I only had one shot.

With every ounce of strength in my body, I yanked down on the fixture. The wiring ripped from the plastic with the force, sparking as they came out and brushed against the screws. The room fell dark the instant the wires were loose, and I froze, not daring to move until my eyes adjusted.

I was beginning to get light headed from the ongoing hunger, and my balance began to wobble as my thin socks started sliding against the top of the desk. I had managed to keep ahold of the wires in my left hand, my palm growing sweaty with how tightly I was clenching them. My arms were growing tired quickly, and I needed to hurry.

Standing on the tips of my toes, I had to reach even farther to grab the wires and direct them towards the insulation I had pulled out, separating them so one was in each hand.

I tapped the frayed ends of the wires together, flinching at the sparks that erupted each time they touched. It was enough, after a few tries, to catch on the insulation. Although it caught, I continued until more sparks arced through the air, causing the insulation to begin burning. It wasn’t enough, yet, and I blew lightly until the burning embers erupted in orange flame.

Gasping in shock that it had worked, I ducked back out of the way and instantly lost my balance, my feet slipping out from beneath me. My arms flailed wildly, trying desperately to catch anything that would break the fall. Moving purely on instinct, I twisted and fell to the side, my fingers catching and slipping on the edge of the bookshelf as my body plunged towards the floor.

Instead of steadying me, my weight was enough to pull the bookshelf forward and change the course of my fall. My back slammed against the hard concrete and my head followed, bouncing hard from the impact. Overwhelming pain was searing against my scalp, and the light from the flames was spotted black as my vision began to swim. I felt myself losing consciousness quickly, and I couldn’t help but hope that my skull was cracked.

The few books I had were falling all around me, piling up on my legs and arms as the bookshelf followed behind. I could hear it creaking as it fell; everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

I felt the weight of it on top of my body as it crashed down, but I couldn’t feel any pain. Not anymore. 

It was finally over.

* * *

I smelled the familiar scent of disinfectant and cleaner before I realized I was waking up. I could hear voices, but everything felt muddled and foggy; like I had been drugged.

_ Wait _ , I thought, beginning to remember what had happened. Hospital, doctors, morphine…

It took several moments, but I began to find clarity. I resisted the pull to open my eyes, and tried to steady my breathing so no one would notice. I didn’t want to be drugged again.  _ If I’m awake, I must be alive. _ The pain in my shoulder had dulled, probably a side effect of the drugs snaking its way through the IV port in my arm.

I kept still and listened, and the voices floated through the room towards me.

“Peeta was protected, in part, by the bookshelf that fell on top of him,” it sounded like the doctor, but in the haze of my memory, I couldn’t be sure. “According to the firefighter that found him, the concrete walls prevented the flames from destroying the basement, but he still sustained some third-degree burns to his shoulder, legs, and torso from the heat. We did have to amputate his left leg right below the knee… It couldn’t be saved.”

There was a sharp gasp, but he continued. I tried to wiggle my feet, but I couldn’t find any sensations besides the dull throbbing pain that jammed my nerves. 

“It’s hard to tell what kind of injuries he sustained before the fire, though. Our x-rays found several remodeled fractures that appear to be a few years old,” his voice turned grim, “and the scarring on his body suggests that abuse was involved during his imprisonment. Some of it appears to have been severe.”

“Why?” A different man spoke, the words coming out scratchy and weak. “Why would they do that to him?”

He sounded vaguely familiar, but the knowledge of who it could be was like something stuck in the back of my mind that I couldn’t reach.

“We really have no way of knowing,” the doctor, or at least who I assumed was the doctor, replied, “And we also don’t know how his mental or emotional state will be as he gets back to a normal life.”

“Well, what do you know?” A woman’s voice came next, snarling the words. I knew that tone; it had haunted me even in that basement, even when I was far away from her.

My mother.

At the realization, I knew who the second man’s voice belonged to- it was my father. Their conversation triggered a flood of memories, images flashing before my eyes from my life before I was taken.

Being paddled too hard for spilling a can of soda on the carpet, my mother cackling as tears stung my eyes. “Ten years old and crying? You’ve always been such a  _ baby _ . Maybe some pain will make you grow up!” she had told me.

“Evelyn, stop,” My father would quietly plead, but he wouldn’t make a move against her. He would always wait until she was out of the room to console me, but he never stopped her. He never tried. 

Finally I opened my eyes, not wanting to relive those moments again. I had done enough of that while I was locked up, alone in that basement. None of them were paying attention to me now, and I seized the opportunity to look at them, to see how they’d changed. 

They stood by the door, my father looking a decade older than the last time I had seen him. His hair was gray and he was pale, with wrinkles masking his features. He looked old and haggard, and not at all like the father I remembered.

Shifting my gaze, I saw my mother. Disgust curled in my stomach as I saw that she remained unchanged over the last six years. She still looked angry and mean, a permanent scowl etched across her features. The tight bun she wore her hair in was still there, pulling the skin around her eyes taught. Looking at her, you wouldn’t have any idea she had lost a child. 

My father cast a worried glance in my direction, startling when he met my gaze. Our eyes locked, and I could see the relief fill his features. I kept my face impassive, unable to draw up the same relief at seeing him.

The doctor, searching for a reason to get away from my mother and her venomous eyes, followed my father’s gaze until he saw me awake.

“Peeta,” he approached me cautiously. My reaction to him the last time I woke up was still fresh in my mind, but I this time I was aware of my surroundings. “How are you feeling?”

The question was laughable, but I didn’t bother answering. I felt like shit. My throat was raw, a dull pain throbbed throughout most of my body, and I was as hungry as I’d been before waking up here.

It was easier not to answer.

He took my silence as a cue, reaching for the chart hanging at the end of my bed. “Can you tell me how much you remember before waking up here at the hospital, Peeta?”

The fact that he had to say my name every time he spoke to me was grating, like I was a child that needed to be directly addressed in case I was too stupid to realize I was being spoken to.

“Everything,” my voice was rough with disuse and my tone was cold, but the emptiness I felt wasn’t putting me in an agreeable mood. I would have been luckier to have woken up and not remembered who I was.

The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly and scribbled something down on the chart instead. When he was finished, he walked to the right side of the bed I was laying in.

“I was just explaining to your parents the extent of your injuries. You’re very lucky, Peeta.”

“I know what my name is. You don’t need to keep repeating it like I’ve got brain damage,” The words came out easier as I snapped at him, gritting my teeth. I could feel the annoyance and anger flooding through my limbs like a river, white hot and thick with aggression. It felt nice after years of being completely helpless, so I embraced it, narrowing my eyes at him. 

His eyebrows shot up, but he quickly recovered. “Yes, well, I apologize,” he cleared his throat, and I could see the eagerness on his face to get out of the room. “I was just explaining that you were lucky enough to be protected by the concrete walls and the bookcase that fell on top of you during the fire.”

Lucky wasn’t the word I would use, but I stayed silent.

“The fire spread upwards and into the house, but the heat and proximity to the flames are probably what caused your injuries. You did sustain some second and third-degree burns to your arm and torso, and a portion of your leg, which we had to amputate.”

He waited a moment, gauging my reaction, but I didn’t care about what had protected me. I didn’t even care that part of my leg was supposedly missing. I could care about that later. “Did they die?”

The doctor couldn’t stop the surprise that flashed across his face; he knew exactly who I was talking about. Still, he answered. “The owners of the house didn’t survive the fire.”

My anger returned, coursing through my body with new vigor. The owners of the house? No, they were the monsters that abducted me and kept me locked in a basement for six years. They didn’t survive the fire? No, they were burned alive.

Because of me.

And I didn’t feel bad about it.

Relief placated the anger in me, tempering it down with the small ounce of satisfaction that I had managed to get something right. I felt a slight smile curl at the edges of my lips, and I sank back down into the bed.

When he realized I wasn’t going to respond any further, he quickly changed the subject. “You’ll need to stay here for the next seven to ten days, depending on your recovery time. Your body is malnourished and you’ll need intravenous fluids and antibiotics to fight off any potential infection from the burn sites, as well as medication for the pain. Once your leg heals, you’ll begin physical therapy before being fitted with a prosthetic. We’ll monitor your progress over the next few days and let you know anything new,” with an uncomfortable smile and a nod, the doctor rushed out the door.

The room was tense, and I turned my head to face my parents. My mother looked impassive, inspecting the buttons on her shirt and avoiding my eyes. “Well, I’m going to go find something to drink. Maybe this awful place has coffee somewhere,” she brushed off my father’s hand before disappearing through the doorway.

When she was gone, my father walked closer to my bed, placing a hesitant hand on the railing. “I’m so sorry.”

I wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for- whether it was the fact that I was taken, or the fact that my mother seemed to care less that I had been found. I didn’t have the energy or desire to question it, so I shrugged, unsure of what to say.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Food,” I answered, looking away from him. My stomach was beginning to ache.  _ How long has it been since I’ve eaten? _

“I’ll see what I can do,” he turned and walked out of the room, his shoes squeaking softly against the polished floors.

After a few days, one of the nurses came into my room with a determined look. It was Portia, who had been checking on me every morning and night. She was constantly smiling, even when she was changing out my IV tubes and pushing my wheelchair into the bathroom. 

I wish I could say I returned them. Instead I sat there, quiet, as she prattled on about her son and her weekend plans. Like I had any reason to care. 

“You’re going for a walk today.”

“I am?” She was one of the few that didn’t shy away from my cold demeanor.

“Yes, you are. It’s time,” she approached the bed and checked the IV in my arm before pulling the stand out from beside my bed. “Your body is filling out now, and you need to exercise some of your muscles before you start PT next week,” removing a bundle from underneath her arm, she set it on my lap. “Here’s a robe. I have some slippers for you to use as well. Now let’s go.”

“Aren’t you forgetting about something?” I pulled back the blanket to reveal my leg. Or rather, the absence of it. The stump below my knee was still wrapped in gauze, and it still hadn’t fully set in that I half my leg was now gone. Or maybe it had, and I just didn’t care enough. 

“Crutches,” she answered simply, and motioned at a pair of them by the door. Her tone was brisk, and I knew I couldn’t argue. Besides, it’d be easier to agree so that I could get something in return.

When I lifted my torso up to sit, I realized that she was right. I was gaining weight. The bones that used to stick out and protrude at odd angles beneath my skin were slowly beginning to disappear; the skin on my hands and arms was no longer ashen and flaky. I was still jaundiced from the lack of sunlight, but even that was beginning to fade. 

“Portia?” I questioned as I pulled the robe around my shoulders and scooted towards the edge of the bed, “Can you get me something to cut my hair?”

She was silent for a moment, mulling over my request. She’d helped me shave my face, the poor excuse for facial hair I had was still enough that it made my chin itch, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had a haircut. It was before I’d been taken, that much I knew. It had grown for the first few years, but slowed to a stop when my body began to waste away from malnourishment. Now my blond hair hung to my shoulders, thin and limp. 

“I just want to shave it off.”

“I don’t see why not,” she offered me a smile and took my arm, helping me to stand with the crutches in her hands. “I’ll have to do it for you, but we can do that.”

True to her word, Portia showed up in my room that night with a pair of scissors and an electric trimmer. After draping a towel across my shoulders, she began without ceremony. We didn’t speak, and she didn’t bother asking me any questions that she knew I wouldn’t want to answer. She didn’t even try to fill the silence with more of her stories about her life outside the hospital. The methodical snipping and buzzing as her hands traveled across my scalp was more relaxing than I had expected, and for the first time in years… I felt at ease.

“All done,” she spoke softly, noticing my state. When I opened my eyes, she was standing in front of me, a smile playing at her lips and a small mirror in her hand. “Have a look.”

I looked like a skeleton.

My cheeks were still sunken in, my face pale and lacking color. Even with the sleep and regular meals, dark bags hung beneath my eyes like grim shadows. Now, the absence of hair made my skin look even thinner as it stretched across my skull.

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

So far, she was the only person I knew that I didn’t hate.

* * *

Like the doctor predicted, I spent ten days in the hospital.

Each day was the same routine. I would wake up only long enough to eat and let the nurses redress my burns before collapsing back into bed to sleep off the pain. The doctor checked on me regularly, to update my progress and see how I was feeling. The conversations were always quick and one sided, where I would nod or shake my head in response to his questions, and he would leave as quickly as he came. I would force down the bland cafeteria food they sent up three times a day, and Portia would always cheer like it was some great feat when I managed to eat a few more bites than the day before. Mostly, though, I slept. I slept off the painkillers they kept flowing through my I.V., and I slept off the exhaustion from the pain. I slept while my body tried to heal, but even sleep wasn’t enough to outrun the damage that had been done. Sometimes, while I slept, I was plagued with nightmares. Foggy memories, swirling together into monsters I’d never thought were real. Burning me, torturing me, killing me. I would wake up, screaming in Portia’s arms as she tried to soothe me back into reality. 

My burns healed slowly, and they weaned me off the pain medication. The injuries began to fade, but the scars were still as prominent as ever. While the old scars blurred and mixed with new ones, my skin was a canvas of horror. 

My body gained more weight, and the walks I took around the hospital with Portia grew easier and easier. I was sent to visit the second floor for physical therapy in the afternoons, and I worked on trying to regain some of the coordination and balance I’d lost. The worst part about it all was the pitying looks and prying eyes, as the other nurses and patients strained to see the poor boy who’d been held captive for so long. 

Still, despite my “progress,” I couldn’t rid myself of the anger and hatred that constantly bubbled within me at all times. It was ever-present, staining me with aggression and hostility that begged to be released. Every time the nurses would whisper behind their hands to each other, my fists would clench. My teeth would grind together, and the fury that burned deep inside of me would flame even hotter. It grew constantly, growing hotter and hotter with every day that passed. I was angry at everyone. At  _ everything _ . I wanted to scream and to lash out. To get revenge on the people who’d done this to me… Who had let it happen. But I knew I couldn’t. I had to hold on for just a little while longer. 

During my discharge, the doctor cast a pointed look at my father. “Although he seems to be functioning normally, I’m strongly suggesting that Peeta seek some form of counseling for the trauma he’s experienced.”

As if it would be that easy, just going and talking to someone about  _ my trauma.  _ Like they would understand. Like it was something that could be fixed. It couldn’t be, but we both knew that, didn’t we? I wanted to laugh at him, but I pressed my lips together and fisted my hands in my lap instead. The last thing I needed was for them to send me to the psych ward, instead. I couldn’t be locked up. Not again.

Instead, I focused instead on the shiny linoleum floor, my warped reflection staring back at me until we were ready to go.

My mother had been absent the entire time I was in the hospital, always leaving my father to deliver her poorly disguised excuses. I didn’t care, really, and it was a slight consolation that I didn’t have to see her.

It was probably safer that way.

I followed my father to the car, trying to stay steady on my crutches, and noticed it wasn’t the same as I had remembered. His old car had always been pristine and shiny, and I remembered the way he would yell at my brothers and I for playing too close to it in the driveway. This car was red and dirty, the dust from the roads covering it in a thin film of grime. The question bubbled up inside my chest but I tamped it down. I didn’t care what had happened to that old car. It was just another thing that was different now. Just like me. 

It was a quick drive from the hospital, one that was spent with my eyes trained on the tops of my shoes. They were just like an old pair I used to have, but this time my shaky fingers hadn’t been able to tie the knots quite tight enough. My father had brought me a pile of new clothes before my discharge, still folded in the bag from the store. They were all loose on my lanky frame, but when he saw me he’d muttered something about “filling them out soon enough” before patting me awkwardly on the back.

I didn’t care about the clothes or the shoes, but I didn’t want to look out the windows as the town went rushing by. I didn’t want to see how things had changed, or what I had missed while I was locked up in isolation.

It was just another reminder.

The colors blurred by, obscured through the window as my father sped down the streets towards what he called “home.” It wasn’t until we pulled to a stop and he put the car in park that I bothered to look up.

It wasn’t the same house. “You moved?”

My father cleared his throat, fiddling nervously with the seatbelt. “We spent a lot of… time searching for you after you went missing. We had to downsize.”

By time, he meant money. I wasn’t that stupid, but I didn’t respond. It was better anyways; the last thing I wanted was to have to walk back into the room I spent my childhood in, back when I thought that things couldn’t get worse than the beatings from my mother.

Finally I nodded, unbuckling myself and positioning myself to stand outside of the car so my father could hand me the crutches. It would be another three to four weeks until I could get fitted for my new prosthesis, and until then, I was stuck with them. Leading the way, my father unlocked the front door and held it open. As I hobbled in, he spoke, his words quiet. “Your brothers will be home tonight to see you.” 

I paused, my body freezing midstep. I knew it was the most logical thing to happen next, my father had said on the day that I woke up in the hospital that they “were off at college and couldn’t make it home just yet.” Like it was just another routine day, when your brother came back from the dead.

Still, since their initial mention, I hadn’t spared them any thought. I waited, knowing that I should feel guilty about forgetting them, but it never came.

“Okay,” I nodded, wondering if I should appear excited. 

My response must have been enough, because he gave me a slight smile. “I’ll show you to your room.”

It was awkward to try and scale the stairs with my crutches, but I was somewhat thankful for my practice with Portia and in physical therapy. The walls were bare, and the furniture was plain. A bed, a desk, and a dresser filled the space. A small TV sat on top of the dresser, the reflective surface of the screen distorting the room back onto itself. The closet door was pulled open, and a few clothes were tucked inside.

“We bought you a couple more things. When you’re feeling up to it, I’ll take you out to get some more,” he noticed where I was looking, and I nodded again.

“Thanks,” I responded, assuming that’s what he was looking for.

“The bathroom is just across the hall, and the other room up here is the office. Your mother and I have the bedroom downstairs, but I can show you that later. Are you tired?” he asked, hovering near the door.

I shrugged. I was always tired.

“Well, get some rest and I can come wake you when dinner is ready. Make yourself at home,” he offered a sad smile before turning and leaving down the short hall. I could hear him treading down the stairs, his shoes muffled by the carpet.

I considered laying down, but felt restlessness filled my body now that I was alone. Using one of the crutches, I took a few moments to look closer at the furniture, seeing that it was sturdier than the things I’d been given in my basement room. A blank notebook sat on top of the desk, but the drawers were empty. No pens, no pencils. Nothing.

Moving back to the bed, I sat down gingerly. The comforter was soft and worn, a deep shade of dark blue that had faded and dulled with repeated washings. It didn’t feel right to sit down, so I stood again and limped across the room.

The closet was small, but that didn’t really matter since I didn’t have anything to fill it with. A few shirts hung from hangers, the tags still dangling from the collars. A pair of pants and a pair of shorts were folded neatly on the shelf, but the space was otherwise empty.

“What, not good enough for you? Feel the need to inspect everything?” The snide remark startled me, and I froze in place, my body growing cold at the sound of her voice.

I turned slowly to face my mother, not surprised to see the sneer marring her features. I didn’t bother with an answer, because nothing I said would matter to her. It never had, and I doubt that anything had changed. If anything, she looked even more miserable now than she had before. 

“You’re lucky to even be here, you know,” she stepped closer to me, but I didn’t move. Thankful for the crutch, I rested my weight against it. “We spent so much time looking for you; your father and your brothers exhausted everything we had to try and find you.”

I clenched my teeth, willing my breathing to stay normal. I could feel the anger, always bubbling and boiling, trying to escape. She didn’t wait for a response before continuing, poking her finger towards my chest.

“We moved on. You weren’t supposed to come back.”

My jaw dropped, an involuntary reflex to the shock of her words. I knew she didn’t want me; I had come to terms with it in my forced isolation. But this- her blatant admission that she would rather me be dead than to survive, was enough to push me over the edge. Finally, after weeks of holding it inn, I gave in to the black, poisonous anger that had been simmering just underneath the surface.

Her face, which had been twisted into a satisfied smile at my shock, turned to surprise as I snatched her wrist between the fingers of my free hand. I squeezed tightly, willing her to feel some ounce of the pain I knew so well, and savored the look of discomfort that flashed across her features. Even with my decreased strength, she was thin and frail. I pressed harder, relishing the way she flinched away. Yanking her closer, I lowered my voice and narrowed my eyes.

“I burned that house down for a reason,” her mouth gaped, but I continued, spitting the words at her. “I’m not afraid to die, and I’m sure as hell not afraid of you. Don’t forget that.”

I released her wrist from my hand, smirking as she rubbed the red mark that I had left behind. 

Without a word, she turned and left the room.


	2. Two - Katniss

_ Peeta Mellark, long presumed dead, has been found alive in the rubble of a burning home- _

_ Mellark, now aged 21, was found-  _

_ Peeta Mellark, abducted from outside his house at 15 years old-  _

_ Neighbors called 911 after flames were seen coming from the first floor-  _

_ Surviving six years in captivity, Mellark is the only survivor- _

Grinding my teeth, I turn the television off and try not to throw the remote across the room. Every channel in Panem is tuned in to the miraculous recovery of Peeta Mellark. They were clamoring outside his hospital like rabid animals, trying to catch a glimpse of the Boy Who Survived. I can’t imagine the horror he’s been through, and knowing that the reporters and the press are trying to get to him like a piece of meat makes my stomach churn. 

Pushing my hands into my hair, I close my eyes. I remember Peeta Mellark. I remember everything about him, even the day he went missing. 

It had been the middle of summer, right before our sophomore year of high school. One night he was there, and in the morning… gone. 

Stolen. 

The entire city spent weeks searching for him. Crowding across the streets, combing through fields for any trace of him. But there was nothing. 

I still remember the way his dad, with a weak voice and tears in his eyes, pleaded on the local news for someone to come forward. Whether it had been an accident, or something worse, he didn’t care. He just wanted to know what had happened to his son. All the while, Peeta’s mother had stood stone-faced in the background, her lips pressed tight until they disappeared entirely. 

With every passing day, the rumors had grown.  _ Maybe he ran off,  _ people had whispered. It wasn’t a secret that Mrs. Mellark could be a mean old hag.  _ He probably got in with a bad crowd and ended up on the wrong side of a deal, _ they subjected. As if Peeta, the sweetest guy in her entire school, could have wound up with a bad crowd.  _ Another kid from the Capitol went missing a few years ago… I bet he was taken by whoever took that little girl.  _

That was the rumor that had haunted the back of my mind for the last six years. Death would have been a blessing, if that were the case. 

Peeta and I were never really close. We had grown up together, sharing classes every year until he disappeared. We never talked, but he had helped me in ways he probably never realized. 

My thoughts are interrupted by my front door swinging open, privacy be damned. “You hear about that boy they found?” Haymitch staggers into my living room, a glass bottle held loosely in his hand.  _ I really should start locking my doors. _

“Don’t you know how to knock?” I roll my eyes, standing to kick the front door closed behind him. He’s the only decent neighbor on the block, even if he is a bit of an alcoholic. He’s somewhat functional, though, so I guess that's all that matters. 

“Like you care,” he grunts and drops his body into the worn leather chair by the coffee table. 

I don’t. Not really. I’ve barged into his house a time or two, but that was mostly because I had to check and make sure he was still alive and not passed out in his bathtub. 

Sighing, I sink back down into my spot on the couch. “Yeah, I saw.”  _ Who hasn’t? _

“He was about your age, wasn’t he?” He took a swig from his bottle and eyes me warily. 

_ He is my age,  _ I want to correct him, but I don’t. “Yeah,” I say instead, and wrap my arms around my torso. “I knew him. We went to school together.” 

“You don’t seem too happy he’s alive.” 

I was, I  _ am, _ but there’s a tangle of other emotions clouding the happiness. Fear, to realize that if he was alive, it meant that he’d been held captive somewhere. Who knows what kind of things he endured, or what they did to him. They’re dead now, so maybe we’ll never know. Worry, when I think about him being pushed back into the world as an adult. Did they ever let him outside? Does he know how much has changed? Sorrow, because I know that even though he was alive, his struggle isn’t going to be over soon. A new one has only just started. 

“I am,” leaning back, I rest my head against the back of the cushion and inspect the ceiling. The plaster is starting to crack over near the wall, and the jagged line catches my eye. “It just…” I can’t find the words, and my voice trails off. 

“Yeah,” Haymitch agrees, and we fall into a comfortable silence. I should offer to turn the TV on, or something. That’s what a good host would do, but he and I both know that’s not me. 

After a few minutes, he speaks again. “You ever find a new roommate?” 

Shaking my head, I look over at him. “No, not yet.” The last one had been… less than ideal. The old house was too big for one person, and I needed help with the mortgage payments. Subletting one of the rooms had been the best idea I could come up with, but I couldn’t find anyone who wasn’t awful. The first girl had a penchant for sharpening knives in the living room, and the second guy to answer the ad liked to bring home drunk women home for raging, screaming sex in the middle of the night. 

“Well, good luck,” draining his bottle, he motions towards the kitchen. “Want to order takeout?” 

“You’re such a freeloader, Haymitch.” 

* * *

“Did you hear they found Peeta?”

“The news said the house burned down because of some faulty wiring. I can’t believe they kept him locked up for so long.”

“What do you think they were keeping him for?”

“I bet whatever it is, it was awful. That boy is going to have problems for life.”

“What I wouldn’t pay to be a fly on the wall of that hospital room…” 

“Do you think they beat him? Or do you think it was worse?”

“I think…” 

I clench my jaw tight, grinding my teeth together until I can feel the ache of pain building from the pressure. It’s the only thing keeping me from falling into a screaming, blind rage. It’s been ten days since Peeta was found, miraculously alive, in the basement of a ramshackle house on the outskirts of town. Details were slow to trickle out, but the entire town was thriving on the new gossip. It was impossible to go anywhere without hearing about it. Every television in town has been playing the 24/7 news coverage of Peeta’s survival. They repeated the details over and over again, showing shots of the smoldering wreckage interspersed with pictures of him as a child. I recognize most of them from our old yearbooks, and I doubt that his family had offered them up. Camera crews had set up camp outside his hospital until the security guards had chased them off, and the only thing they had to show for their efforts were a few grainy photos of a figure in one of the windows. 

Aside from the details about Peeta, they also poured over the identities of the people who took him and how he was found. Coriolanus Snow and his wife, Alma Coin, burned to death in their own bedroom. The rescue crews found him lying unconscious in the rubble of the basement, shielded by a splintered bookshelf. The news reports said that he was lucky, because the fire traveled upwards into the upper levels of the house instead of down into the concrete basement. There was evidence, the police said during a press conference, that there had been a secret room hidden away down there. A jail cell. A torture chamber. His own personal cage.

He’d been through hell and back, but all anyone seems to care about now is knowing what happened behind the closed doors of his captor’s home. Did they abuse him? Did they rape him? Was he ever allowed to leave, or was he locked inside for those entire six years? 

_They have zero respect,_ I fist the napkin in my hands, tearing it into tiny pieces as I wait for Gale to show up. The diner is packed with the lunch crowd, every seat full as customers whisper to each other about Peeta and his escape. 

“That poor boy got to safety and now he has to go back to his wretched mother,” another woman at a nearby table comments, and I continue to shred the napkin with every word that comes out of her mouth. 

“I don’t know, I bet he’s pretty troubled now. You go through something like that and you’re bound to come out… _ wrong, _ ” her friend responds, and even though the last word was a whisper, I hear it loud and clear.

Before I have a chance to open my mouth, Gale steps into view and the words die in my throat. Shooting me a strange look, he takes the seat across from me. “Everything okay?” He can read my face better than anyone. 

“Yeah,” I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down, hard. 

“You sure?” He presses, and turns to smile briefly at the waitress when she drops off a glass of water in front of him. 

“I’m fine, Gale,” I snap, but a sharp pang of regret follows as soon as the words leave my tongue. “Sorry… I’m just a little tense.” My halfhearted shrug must be enough to convince him, or maybe he knows better than to push, because he changes the subject. 

“Are you still good to cover me this week?” he asks, picking up the menu and letting his eyes drag across the options. I don’t know why he’s bothering- the small diner options are limited, and it’s not like he hasn’t already tried everything twice. 

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” my fingers tap lightly against the tabletop, and I look around at the other tables while I wait. Gale started his own landscaping and greenhouse business after taking a few business classes at the local college, and put me in charge of the nursery almost as soon as I graduated high school. I still don’t know why he chose me to be his second in command over one of his brothers, but I wasn’t about to turn away the job. It was better than digging holes and planting bushes, which is what he usually did. He handles the landscaping clients, and I tend to the plants in the greenhouse. 

“I won’t be too far if you need anything,” he assures me, “You can call if there’s a problem-” 

“Gale,” I cut him off. “I know how to run the nursery. I think I can survive for a week without you.” 

He presses his lips together and raises his eyebrow, like he doesn’t appreciate being called out for worrying. “Fine. Just don’t forget about the delivery on Thursday morning.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve never missed any of the deliveries, nor have I dropped the ball since I took over the responsibilities from him three years ago. Our conversation is interrupted by the waitress, who takes our orders and scurries away quickly to get back to her other tables. 

“So,” he fills the silence between us. “Crazy stuff about that Mellark kid, right?” 

My eyes snap back to him, narrowing in suspicion. If he was about to start gossiping like the rest of the town… 

“Whoa,” Gale raises his hands in front of him, “I was just making conversation.” 

I let my eyes fall closed, sinking back into the seat. I’m just being irrational now, and I know it. I don’t have any right to feel this angry or upset. It’s not like Peeta even remembers me now, anyways. 

“It’s getting old… Hearing everyone talk about him like some sort of circus freak.” 

He nodded, silent for a moment. “Did you know him?” 

“Yeah,” I go back to ripping up my napkin. It’s easier to focus on, and it gives my hands something to do while I work through the thick fog of grief I’m feeling for Peeta. The tiny pieces are gathering now, piling on top of each other with my frustration. “He helped me a few times,” I admit, and I don’t miss the way that Gale’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He’d been my closest friend since we were kids, but I haven’t told him everything. 

“Helped you?” he prompts, leaning forward so I don’t have to speak so loud. 

“The year after my dad died,” I start, still not looking away from the bits of napkin in front of me. Gale knows how hard it had been for us. How much we had struggled when my mom sank into a depression and could barely take care of herself, let alone two daughters. How little we had to survive off of. “There were a lot of weeks when I had to decide between food for myself or Prim.” I don’t need to elaborate on that part any further, because Prim always came first. Even now, when she’s off at college, taking opportunities I never could. Gale doesn’t respond, so I continue. 

“It had been going on for a couple of months,” I watch as another piece of white paper floats down to the table. “One day he found me in the library and dropped a brown paper bag in front of me. He didn’t say anything… He just set it down and walked away,” I finally look up, but Gale’s expression is guarded. “It was his lunch.” 

“You should have told me-” Gale starts, but I cut him off. He had done enough to help us. His dad had died in the same accident, and he had so much more to shoulder. Two brothers and a baby sister, plus his mom. 

“You couldn’t have taken care of everything,” I tell him, but it’s no consolation. He would have tried, if I would have let him. “After that, any time I came to school without lunch he found me. If it weren’t for him… I would have gone hungry. But he never said anything. He never even asked me for anything in return,” my voice has grown quiet amidst the bustling noise of the diner, but the admission feels like a weight has been lifted from my chest. 

“I had no idea,” reaching across the table, he sets his hand on top of mine. It feels strange, heavy and hot against my skin. 

“I know,” I respond, trying to muster a smile. “And it’s okay. We survived.” 

As soon as the words leave my lips, mortification spreads through my body like wildfire.  _ We survived _ . It was a terrible choice of words, and I can feel my cheeks growing warm. I’ve got no right to talk about survival when Peeta has just emerged from the depths of hell.

* * *

Another week passes by and the rumors only grow, morphing into a constant stream of speculation. It’s almost impossible to go anywhere in town without hearing  _ someone  _ whispering about him. Where he was staying. What he was doing. Sightings of him around town. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing or where you’re at, they gossip. All of them. The topic of Peeta Mellark has bled into the cracks of the foundation in town, seeping into the corners of every available space and building. There’s no escaping it, or him. 

Even at work, I can’t find any solace. Two younger women are browsing a table of succulents, inspecting them as they talk. 

“I saw him the other day, downtown,” the blonde one speaks in a hushed tone. “His father must have been driving him home from the hospital. He looked  _ terrible.”  _

“How bad?” Her companion urges, glancing around as if they might get caught. Only by me, since there’s no one else in the storefront of the nursery but the three of us.

“Like a zombie, or something. Covered in bruises and scars… It was-”

“Can I help you find something?” I cut them off with a pointed look. 

“Oh,” she jumps, cheeks flaming red. “We were just looking for a housewarming gift.” 

“Our friend just bought her first house,” the other confirms, like I’m going to question their business. 

“Why don’t I help you find something, then?” With a forced smile, I lead them towards the greenhouse. “Does she have a lot of windows?” 

“Not many,” she frowns. 

“The succulents are a good idea, but we have some other options in the back.”

They follow me without fanfare, but keep their mouths closed.  _ Good.  _

“Jade plants make good gifts, and a lot of people consider them to bring fortune into a new home,” I point to the pallet nearby, piled high with the small planters. “There’s also the snake plant, which is really easy to care for. They can thrive in a lot of different environments.” At that suggestion, she lets out a small noise of interest. 

“You could try an orchid, but they can be a little difficult. We also have a few small rosemary plants if your friend likes to cook with fresh herbs.” Gale and I agreed to stock a little of everything in the greenhouse, including plenty of edible plants and seeds for home gardens. It’s a more practical business choice than just selling bundles of flowers or lawn shrubs. 

“Oh, there’s so many to choose from…” she looks overwhelmed with the options, and glances at her friend to confirm. She’s just as lost though, and can only offer an unsure shrug. The greenhouse is humid in the late afternoon sun, but I don’t mind the warmth as it seeps into my skin. “What about some fresh cut flowers? Do you have those?” 

“Up front in the cooler,” I smile, but it doesn’t feel nearly as strained now. “I think today we’ve got some roses, orchids, and sunflowers.” It’s a small selection for the season, but they’re good quality. 

“A bouquet of sunflowers would be nice,” the second woman replied, chewing on her lip. “And then we could go get her a nice vase to put them in?” 

“That’s a great idea,” I urge, leading them back to the front so I can ring up their purchase. “We’ve also got gift certificates if you want to let her pick something out herself.”

“Oh, that would be perfect!” They agree.  _ Anything to get you out of here,  _ I think. 

Once they’re gone, the plant nursery is blessedly empty. Gale is still out with the landscaping crew finishing out the last of our summer clients, and business is about to start slowing down once we near autumn. Winter would mean swapping out the stock with fresh evergreen trees and holiday wreaths, but until then, we’re destined for sporadic business. 

A few more customers come and go, but by 8 PM, I’m more than ready to close up shop. I’ll be back to open at 10 tomorrow, but for the rest of the evening, I can be at home, tucked away in my quiet little haven. Safe. Away from the gossip about Peeta Mellark and the rumors that swirl through town. 

I’m not sure what was worse - the constant speculation, or the way my mind keeps wandering to him in the quiet parts of the afternoon. 

It isn’t a long drive to my house, since Hawthorne Nursery & Gardening sits on the edge of town near the neighborhood where Gale and I grew up. Where I still live. It’s convenient, and just another part of the easy routine my life has fallen into. Eat, sleep, go to work, repeat. Call Prim, clean the house, repeat. 

It’s been over a year since Prim moved out for college, and as soon as our mom died, I inherited the old bungalow. Growing up, it had seemed so small with the four of us packed inside. Then our dad died, followed by our mom when she finally succumbed to cancer a few years ago. Now Prim is gone too, off making a new life for herself. The ghosts of those childhood days, when the house was loud and full, have long since faded. 

Now it’s just me, and finding a roommate is proving harder than it needs to be. 

Gale tried to convince me to sell the thing and move in to one of the newer, more modern apartments in town. After weeks of badgering, I gave in and agreed to go for a tour, just to humor him. The chemical smell from the new carpets had made my nose burn.  _ No thanks.  _

The blinking red light of the answering machine is the first thing I notice when I walk into the dark living room. It’s old school, a relic leftover from my parents when Prim and I were still young. But it works, and it was easier to keep the landline in the house than to give out my personal cell phone number for things like “Wanted Roommate” ads. Dropping my bag by the door, I press the PLAY button and turn to lock it behind me. 

_ You have two new messages, _ the robotic voice begins. 

“Hi,” it’s a girl, her voice high pitched and a little bubbly. I can hear her smacking gum between her teeth while she speaks, and I’m immediately weary. “I saw your ad online for a room to rent? My name’s Glimmer and I just got out of rehab, so I need a place to stay soon. I can pay cash as soon as I find a job. My number…” 

I grimace. I won’t be returning that one. I press the DELETE button quickly and the machine plays through to the next message. 

“I’m calling for Katniss Everdeen, this is Levy from Capitol Windows. We’ve got your estimate ready for your window replacement, and it looks like the quote tops out at $7,500 with parts and labor. Our installation calendar is fairly full, so I would suggest getting on the schedule soon.” 

I had started towards the kitchen, but end up freezing mid-step as I absorb the information.  _ That _ much for new windows? The old windows were original to the house, and the drafts are getting worse every year. I have some savings built up, but that big of a bill would eat up every cent. 

_ Another reason to get a new roommate _ . The mortgage isn’t that high, but it was enough with the added repair bills to be tight with a single salary. 

The answering machine turns itself off as I enter the kitchen, and I end up dropping in to the nearest chair, suddenly exhausted. Dull hunger rumbles in my stomach, but the pantry is mostly empty, and the only things in the fridge are half-eaten containers of delivery and take-out food. Sighing, I let my head fall back. The ceiling is dusty, and faded with stains from years of cooking fumes. Combined with the crack in the living room, I need to do something to keep the house from falling into complete disrepair.

_ Put up some new wanted ads.  _

_ Find a roommate.  _

_ Start cooking. _

_ Paint ceiling.  _

_ Try not to go broke.  _

My to-do list is growing longer, but I don’t have the energy to deal with any of it. Not tonight. 

_ Saturday, _ I resolve, getting up to pull a box of cold leftovers from the fridge. I would be off work for the weekend in just a few days, and then I could start taking care of my list. It wasn’t that much. I could handle it. 

* * *

Saturday comes faster than I anticipate, and as much as I want to lay in bed all day and watch movie reruns on TV, I can’t. I made my to-do list, and I have to stick to it. In the morning, I actually manage to change the sheets on my bed, clear out the pile of clutter from in front of the shed in the backyard, and scrounge up a meal from the odd ingredients scattered through the kitchen. It’s more than I’ve been able to get done in at least a few weeks, and it feels good.  _ Productive,  _ I think, and I feel a little guilty for letting myself fall so far behind. There’s no excuse for it, especially now that I’ve only got myself to take care of. By noon, I’ve got a freshly printed stack of flyers on the passenger side of my old white Jeep, and my first stop is the hardware store. 

“Hey, Dalton,” I greet the owner when I enter. “Mind if I put up a flyer?” 

“Go ahead,” he waves towards the old bulletin board by the register. It’s already papered with lost dog flyers and ads for garage sales, and I quickly find a place to pin my ad. At first I’d tried an online listing, but it came at the cost of a subscription fee and the only people who answered were strangers from out of town. It’s time to try tapping someone local. Less weird, maybe.  _ Hopefully.  _

“While I’m here, can I grab a couple gallons of paint?” I straighten the edge of the flyer before I turn back towards him. There’s one of those expensive, name-brand paint stores about an hour away near the Capitol, but the hardware store stocks their own and Dalton charges a decent price. 

“Sure,” he nods, and begins walking towards the back where the paint counter is. “What’re you painting?” 

“The ceiling,” I tell him, and he grabs a two gallon cans from a shelf. “Living room and kitchen.”

“White?” he confirms. “I’ve got pre-mixed.”

“That’s fine,” I move to pull out my wallet. I’m pretty sure the ceiling is white, at least. If it’s not, it will be soon, because I’m not about to try and color-match an old dusty ceiling. 

“We’ve got rollers and tarps, too,” Dalton sets them in front of me and starts pressing buttons on the ancient register, but I shake my head. 

“I’ve got some old supplies,” I found them in the shed this morning, stashed away from the year my dad repainted Prim’s bedroom lilac blue. “Thanks, though.”

Once I’ve paid and haul them back out to my SUV, I drive around to a few more places to put up flyers. The laundromat, Sae’s diner, and the library all have community bulletin boards, and I leave my ad pinned to each one. It doesn’t take too long to get through all of them, and before I know it, I’m on my way to my final stop… The grocery. After looking at my budget this week, I’m a little ashamed of the amount of money I’ve been spending on take out. If I’m going to start fixing up the house, I’m going to need to tighten my purse strings, and the first step is buying actual groceries to cook with, and not just boxes of cheap pasta and jars of pre-made sauce. 

The town grocery also has a spot on the wall by the customer service desk for community ads, and I figure that it will be the best place to leave my last flyer. It’s a last ditch effort, and if I don’t find someone relatively soon, I might have to start considering alternatives. 

I pull into a spot near the front of the parking lot and steel myself before heading inside. It’s been busy out today as people bustle around town running their errands for the week, but the grocery store is another monster entirely. I try to avoid it on the weekend at all costs, preferring to do my shopping late on weeknight evenings when no one else is around. The lights are too bright, the aisles are too crowded, and the constant flow of people around me is enough to put my teeth on edge. 

_ Get in, get out,  _ I chant it in my head like a mantra as I make my way inside. The flyer is clutched in my hand, slightly wrinkled from my sweaty palm, and when the blast of AC hits me I can’t help but shudder. Making quick work of it, I grab a cart from the line by the door and stop by the customer service desk before venturing farther into the store. 

“Can I put this on the board?” I hold up the flyer as I ask the desk attendant. 

“Sure, honey,” it’s an older woman, and she gives me a sweet smile. “There should be a few spare pins on there somewhere.” 

Nodding my thanks, I find a spot for it. This one is even fuller than the board at the hardware store, and I can barely find any room between the ads for dog walkers and cars for sale. When I’m done, I grasp the handle of the cart and take a deep breath before I head into the fray. 

It’s a small store, and still locally owned, unlike the big box stores near the Capitol. Even though they’ve got less of a selection, it’s still packed with people. Kids are running free, couples are arguing over prices, and carts are parked in every inch of available space as people slowly browse the options. It’s a flurry of activity and chaos, and I try to tune them out as I blindly grab items from the shelves.

Apples are starting to come in season, and I toss a few into a bag before I go for some fresh vegetables. I pick out a whole chicken that I’ll roast for dinner, and several pounds of beef to put in the freezer. A loaf of bread, some lunch meat, and a few different types of cheese come next. I’m keeping a mental tally of the list in my head, and when I stop to take stock of my items I have to dodge a man walking past on his phone, and I narrowly avoid being hit with his cart. 

“Shit,” I curse, shooting him a glare, but he doesn’t notice as he walks away. 

_ What else do I need?  _ I try to refocus. Eggs. Milk. Tea. Oatmeal. Some basics, like flour and sugar. They’re all on the other side of the store, and I start a beeline. As I approach the cooler that holds the cartons of eggs and milk, I start to notice something off. There’s not as many people in this part of the store, and the ones that are standing nearby have started to whisper. They’re looking towards the front, peeking down the aisles to try to get a look at something. I can’t tell what, and I don’t want to spend any extra time trying to figure it out. 

Luckily, the last few items are all stocked in the same aisle, and I pull them from the shelves without stopping. I don’t care about the brand names, and instead pick up the cheapest options I see. It takes me a moment to realize that the row is completely empty, and I slow my cart before I reach the end.  _ Where is everyone?  _ I’m getting closer to the front of the store, and the whispers start to get louder. 

There’s a crowd around the registers, and I furrow my brows. Surely everyone in the store isn’t checking out at once? Even the employees are looking towards the front of the store, distracted while they try to scan the items on the belts in front of them. 

I pass by a couple of guys standing huddled together, and when I hear their conversation, cold dread flashes through my veins. 

“Is that… ?” 

“No way. It can’t be.” 

When I pull my cart to the only check out lane that isn’t full of people, I have to cough to get the attention of the cashier. “Oh,” the kid turns and gives me a sheepish look, his cheeks growing red. “Sorry about that.” 

He can’t be any older than 15 or 16, with braces and an awkward haircut. Making quick work of my purchases, he scans them and tosses them into plastic bags before ringing up my total. He’s distracted, I can tell, and wants to look back at the front of the store. I keep my gaze leveled on him though, and he doesn’t risk it. 

I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that I know what I’ll find as soon as I grab my bags and leave. 

“Oh my god,” another woman whispers as I steel myself to leave. “It really is him.”  At the same time I hear her words, I round the corner from the checkout lanes and I see him. 

Standing by the service counter with a slip of paper clutched in his hand is Peeta Mellark. 

Something catches my eye, and I realize it’s not just any piece of paper in his fist. It’s my flyer. 


	3. Three - Peeta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains somewhat graphic descriptions of abuse, violence, and some gore. Please read with caution if you have any sensitivities.

It’s been six years and my mother is even more of a miserable bitch than she when I was younger. It only takes a week back in her house for that to become clear. 

I guess the only difference now is that I’m not afraid of her. Not anymore. Before, she could threaten me while she screamed with rage and I would cower, trying so hard to make myself smaller. She could beat me with the old wooden rolling pin, which was always her weapon of choice, and I would promise to try harder, to be better. To be _good_. Or maybe she would just wait until we were in the back of the bakery and tell me to go grab one of the metal trays when she knew it was still hot from the oven. Then she would laugh, her eyes cold and mean, and it would feel like I could drown in the guilt and shame for not being the son she wanted. 

Unfortunately for her, the petty games she used to play with me were nothing in comparison to Snow and his cruel brand of torture. A quick burn on my palm was cheap. Sloppy. Maybe even a little too easy. He preferred more direct methods of pain, ones that I wouldn’t forget even if the gnarled scars weren’t permanent reminders. Like forcing me to watch while he cut open the skin of my knuckles with a sharp knife. If I looked away, he would dig the tip in deeper. If I made any noise, I earned an extra cut. He didn’t laugh at me, either, when the tears would track down my face. Not like my mother used to. He would smile, instead, because that was his favorite part. 

It had taken weeks for the wounds to heal, with no bandages or a way to clean them. I tried to keep them dry and away from the filth and grime, but without regular meals, my body couldn’t spare the extra energy to heal itself. The scabs cracked open every time I flexed my fingers, and even now I can see the white lines pulling tight when I fist my fingers closed. He was precise, and they strike across the bone in even, tiny strokes. 

I’m surprised, though, because she cracks sooner than I expect her to. She's muttering to my father in the kitchen, believing that I can’t hear her through the open window above the sink. 

“He has to go,” she hisses, and I can hear the way her teeth are clenched together. “He’s crazy. He’ll kill us all if you let him stay here.” 

“What do you want to do? Kick him out on the street?” my father tries, but he’s weak. He always has been. “We’re the only thing he has right now.” 

“I don’t care where he goes, but he can’t stay here,” she says, and from my spot in the back yard, I can imagine what she looks like. Face tight and miserable with hate, her arms crossed over her chest. Or maybe she’s pointing her finger in my father’s face, crowding her body close so you can’t move away. That was always her go-to move when she wanted to intimidate you into submission. 

“Just give me a few days,” he placates her, trying to keep his voice low. “We can figure something out.” 

“Take care of it… Before I do,” she threatens, and my mouth twists to the side. 

I’d like to see her try. 

I may have spent years living in that dark and dingy basement, wasting away from irregular meals, but I’m still bigger than her. I realize now, too, that it doesn’t come down to just physical strength. That’s something else that Snow taught me. I’ve become so familiar with pain and suffering that I’m not the same Peeta as I was before. That Peeta has been dead for a long time. I could kill her with my bare hands, and I wouldn’t even blink twice. 

I’m not surprised that she wants me gone. She never wanted a third son in the first place, and I think that she’s enjoyed the last few years without me around. Rye and Graham are off studying to take over the family bakery, and I’ve come back to ruin the peace that they found once I was gone. They came home briefly to see me once I was discharged from the hospital, but dinner was stunted and forced. They were afraid to touch me. To look me in the face. Instead, their eyes lingered on the jagged scars that stretched across my skin. They watched me too close, like I was a ticking time bomb. 

_“How are you doing, Peeta?”_ Rye asked me while we ate around the table together like we used to. Like nothing had changed, and I almost laughed at how absurd it was. What did he expect me to say, exactly? 

_I’m great, now that I’m not being beaten and starved to death. A half a leg short of fantastic. Thanks for asking._

Instead, I looked at him, unblinking. _“How do you think?”_ Apparently, it wasn’t the right answer, because he didn’t ask me anything else for the rest of the night. Or maybe it was, because I didn’t have to deal with more stupid questions. 

_“Is there anything I can help you with?”_ Graham tried, but I couldn’t stop the slow turn of my head in his direction. 

_“Like what?”_ I asked him. _“Are you planning on coming back here every weekend to give me driving lessons like a good big brother? I think you’re a few years too late.”_ My mother gasped at that one and slammed her hand against the wood of the table. Everyone else flinched. 

_“You will be respectful in my house,”_ she spat, and I could only muster a slow glance at her. 

_“Or what?”_ I challenged her back. 

No one spoke after that. 

“Hey, Peeta,” my father steps through the sliding glass door and approaches me slowly like I’m a wild, rabid animal. I’ve taken up residence in an old patio chair on the back porch for the last few days, going inside only when the sun starts to dip towards the horizon. When the cold flush of panic starts making my heart pound, and I can’t deal with the memories that start flashing through my head. “Want to come with me to pick up a few things from the store? It might be good for you to get out a little bit.” 

“Sure,” I turn my head towards him, and even though it’s hot outside he’s wearing a pair of khaki pants and a thick, collared shirt. “Are you going to drop me off at the homeless shelter before or after? Just so I know what to pack.” 

I enjoy the way the shock slaps across his features, but it’s short-lived. There’s no point in pretending, and I don’t have the energy to even try. 

“Peeta,” his voice is soft now, and it makes my skin itch. “Your mother…” 

“Is a bitch,” I fill in for him. “And you’re a coward.” He sucks in a harsh breath, getting ready to reprimand me, but I don’t give him the chance. They still want to treat me like a child, even though I’m an adult. Even though I’ve seen and experienced the things of their nightmares. “You always have been, and we both know it. Let’s not pretend that you haven’t always taken her side.” 

Because he did, and he still is now. It’s how he’s always been. He sides with her above the rest of us, even though she’s just as mean to him as she is Rye and Graham. It still wasn’t nearly as much as what I got to deal with, but it’s enough. 

“You should be getting some of your restitution soon,” he changes the subject. I almost forgot about it, actually. Between the constant flow of IV drugs and the doctors, I hadn’t really had a chance to pay much attention to the stuffy lawyer that had come to visit me one afternoon in the hospital. He kept rambling on about _victim’s restitution_ and _what I was owed._ As if sending me the leftover balance from the bank account of Snow and his wife would be enough to make up for what they did to me. “Maybe we should start looking for an inpatient program for you to try… I think it would help.” 

“You want to lock me up in a mental hospital?” I ask, incredulous. _From one prison to another._ For the first time, I start to wonder if my father isn’t just a coward. He must be an idiot too, to think that he can just put me in a different cage and not have it end even worse than the first time around. 

“I just think,” he tries, and I clench my fingers right on the metal arms of the patio chair. He sounds so weak. So afraid. It makes me feel sick. “That it’s the best option we have right now. For you.” 

_The best option for you,_ his clarification speaks volumes. He doesn’t care about me, either. I knew my mother didn’t, but I always held on to some kernel of hope that he didn’t regret me nearly as much as she did. 

Apparently, I was wrong. 

“I’ll find a place on my own,” _maybe the homeless shelter would be a better place than here,_ I think. I can’t look at him know, and my eyes are drawn back down to the scars on my hands. There’s a newer one on my wrist, still pink and raw from the flames that licked against my skin. “You can go,” I dismiss him. I don’t need him. 

I don’t need anyone. 

* * *

If I knew how to laugh anymore, I might do it now. I can only imagine the way I look, hobbling down the sidewalk with a crutch on my bad side. Hopping along with a bandaged stump just below my knee, dressed in the cheap clothes my father bought me over a week ago. They’re still too big, and the fabric hangs off my shoulders like I’m wearing someone else’s shirt. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and every car that passes by slows down as they catch sight of me. 

I see the way they press their faces against the windows, mouths open and eyes wide, like I’m a roadside attraction. I’m not exactly easy to miss, either. My hair hasn’t grown back much, and I’ve still got bruises shading spots on my skin a sickly yellow amidst the roadmap of scars. I am a monster, born from the flames that should have killed me. 

I’m running out of time, and I need to find a place to live before the rest of my sanity spirals away. 

The walk to town wouldn’t normally be long, but I’m stuck moving at a glacial pace on my crutch. I ditched the second one almost immediately after getting home, but it digs into my armpit and leaves my arm aching after just a few minutes. Aside from the pain, I don’t actually mind it. The sun is burning hot against the back of my neck, and I savor the smell of the air that I missed for so long. Every step on the concrete is one that I shouldn’t have been given. 

I remember a few places in town that used to have bulletin boards that people used to advertise on, and my first stop is the old grocery. Yesterday, when my father insisted on driving me to physical therapy, he stopped here. I waited in the car, safe and hidden from prying eyes. _Maybe you should stay, I’ll be back in just a second,_ he insisted. While I stared at the automatic door from behind the windshield, I remembered that board. Papered with ads for garage sales and houses to rent… Maybe I could find something there. 

It might have been a bad idea to come on a Saturday afternoon, but I don’t have many options. I'm backed into a corner, and I don’t trust my father not to drive me back to the inpatient unit at the hospital. 

_It’s the best option for you_ , his words hadn’t left my mind in the three days since I had overheard him and my mother, talking about how they could get rid of me. They burned, stoking the fire of my anger into a full rage. The psych ward was just another prison. A sterile, white prison, with doctors and pills instead of pain and suffering. The opposite of my grimy basement room, but a prison nonetheless. One they would rather send me back to than to help me. 

As I make my way across the parking lot of the grocery store, I know what I’ll find inside. Groups of people, huddled together as they gasp when they realize who I am. Wide eyes and hushed whispers as they look at my scars, my burns, my leg. Pointed fingers and shaded glances. The same thing I’ve been getting ever since the hospital, but now it will be worse. I will be on full display, confirming their rumors. Showing them things that the news crew couldn’t capture footage of. The thought of it makes my chest feel tight and stiff, like I’m sucking air through the straw. _I have to._

The automatic door opens with a _whoosh_ , and my blood begins to pulse loud in my ears, drowning everything else out. I focus on it, grasping tight, letting it wash over my senses me as I limp closer to the service desk. I can’t hear the noise of the people, this way, and if I keep my eyes forward, it will be easier. _It has to be_. I have no choice. The front of the store looks the same as it did before, and I trust my memory as I follow through on instinct. It feels surreal, like maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe I’m still in the basement, my eyes closed, dreaming of being back here again. 

My heart pounds harder, stuttering against my ribcage, and I grip the handle of my crutch. My palm is sweaty and it slips against the plastic, but it grounds me. There’s a woman at the desk, older, but I keep my gaze locked on the bulletin board. It’s full of papers, tacked close together with little white push pins. Leaning against my crutch, I use my free hand to sort through them and it takes me a moment to find what I’m looking for through all the clutter. An ad for a used truck, someone selling babysitting services, a math tutor for hire. Then, finally, I see it. It’s bright white, and the edges are still straight, not crumpled or curled like the other papers that have been stuck here for a while. This one is new. 

ROOMMATE WANTED

One bedroom for rent

Private house (three bedrooms, two bathrooms, full kitchen, living room, private backyard and shed for storage)

Utilities included 

Washer/Dryer 

Located on the west side of town. Preference given to applicants with landlord references. 

At the bottom was a phone number, and I pulled the paper free from the pin, clutching it in my hand. I would have to take it back and use the old landline in the kitchen, but it was a start. The west side of town was in the opposite direction, too. That much farther from my mother and father. 

_Good._

I can feel the weight of the stares now on the back of my neck. The rush of blood in my ears has dimmed, and even over the buzz of the air conditioning, I can hear them. They think they’re being quiet, but they aren’t. I’m frozen, stuck in my spot. 

I want to turn and scream at them, to give them something to talk about. To be the monster from their nightmares. To show them that the bruises and scars on my skin are nothing in comparison to the way my insides look. It might feel a little satisfying too, knowing that for once I have the upper hand. That I’m controlling the narrative now. 

Before I can make a spectacle, I hear soft noise to my right. It sounds like someone clearing their throat, and when I turn my head, it takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing. 

She’s petite, dark hair and olive, tanned skin. Her hands are wrapped around the handle of a cart, and I see the way her knuckles are turning white with the pressure. My eyes catch on them, and I can’t help but think about my own, covered in scars. 

“Hi,” she coughs out, and it’s strained. I know the sound well, because it’s how my voice sounds now too. When I finally chance a look at her face, I’m struck with realization. It’s not just dark hair, but black, pulled back into a braid over her shoulder. Bits of it are hanging around her face, framing silver eyes and dark brows. Silver eyes that I know. _I knew,_ I correct my thoughts, because I haven’t seen those eyes in years. Not since before. 

It’s Katniss Everdeen. She’s the last person I expected to see, and it feels like my stomach drops down when she speaks again. 

“That’s my ad,” she nods to the paper that’s wrinkled in my fist. “Are you… Looking for a place to stay?” The question is hesitant, unsure, and I chance a look down at it before I answer. 

“Yes,” I nod, and it’s stiff. Uncomfortable. I had no idea it was hers, but I thought I would have more time to figure out what I wanted to say. How I would explain everything, from the safety of the other end of the phone. Not standing in front of Katniss Everdeen with an audience of gawking bystanders. When one of them inches a little closer, her eyes dart towards them and she presses her lips together into a tight line. I can see the way her chest is rising, like she’s trying to take deep breaths of air into her lungs.

She’s angry. It’s something else that I recognize, since I’m so acquainted with it. If there is anything I know anymore, it’s anger. 

“Holy shit, look at him,” someone says nearby, and her head snaps to the side. She’s glaring daggers at whoever it is, but my gaze doesn’t follow hers. I keep my eyes locked on her face, because even if I wanted to look away, I don’t know if I could. She opens her mouth, like she wants to say something, but closes it again and turns back to me. The muscle in her jaw is tense, and I watch, somewhat fascinated, at her reaction. 

Katniss Everdeen is angry that people are whispering about me, and I’m not sure why. 

“I just put it up,” she blinks back at the ad in my hands. “We can go outside if you want to talk about it.” 

She doesn’t really give me much of a chance before she turns on her toes and starts pushing her cart towards the door. I notice, though, that her pace is slower than it should be, and I make my choice quickly. I can go with her, or I can continue to stand in the front of the store on display. 

The whispers get louder when I follow her out, hobbling along on my crutch. They grow, swelling into loud conversations about the two of us. What we’re doing. Why I’m following her. 

“Jesus, what happened to his leg?” An older man asks, bold enough that he doesn’t try to quiet his voice.

Once we’re outside, standing in the heavy afternoon heat, she turns and looks at me. For a moment she doesn’t speak, and her eyes linger on my face. It different than the way everyone else has been looking at me, though, and I struggle to place her expression now. Six years ago, it would have made me squirm to have her look at me this closely. 

“You need a place to live,” she finally says, but it’s not a question now. When I nod my head, she turns away and looks out at the parking lot. She must be fighting an internal battle, because it takes her another minute to sort through her thoughts. 

“I get it if you don’t want the town freak living in your house,” I’m filled with a flash of anger at how helpless I feel. “I don’t even have any money yet, anyways.” I don’t know how long it will take for the first check to show up, either. It could be a few days, or a few weeks.

She turns back to me and shoots me the same sharp look I saw in the store. “What?” she asks, watching me closely. 

I shrug, leaning against my crutch. My good leg is starting to ache now, and I’m going to have to find a place to sit down before I try to walk back. “It’s fine. I understand.” 

“Look,” she starts. “I need to get this stuff home before it gets warm in the heat. You can come by and check out the room if you’re interested. We can work something out if you need help.” 

_If you need help._ Her offer hangs between us, and for a moment I’m stunned. I used to hope and pray for help, but I haven’t considered it an option in so long that I’ve almost forgotten what the word means. Before I can form a response, she looks around at the parking lot again, her eyes sweeping across the cars. 

“How did you get here?” The question is measured, and I know she realizes there’s no one out here waiting for me. No car to drive me back. No taxi. Nothing. 

“I walked,” at my blunt response her eyes fall closed, like she’s frustrated. I add it to the list of her reactions that I don’t understand. 

“You _walked?_ ” She seems almost exasperated, and after taking a few deep breaths she finally looks back at me. Her eyes, almost a dark grey in the sunlight, hold on mine and she nods her head, like she’s decided something. 

“Yeah,” I know that I should probably be ashamed, but when I think about how I feel… It’s not there. If I’m even capable of shame now, it’s buried underneath years of anger. 

“That’s my Jeep, right there,” Katniss points at an older SUV with a dented bumper. “If you want, we can go to my house and go over the details. You can take a look at the room and decide if you want it. Then I can drive you back home… Or wherever it is you need to go.” She’s explaining it to me in slow, measured statements, and I realize what she’s doing. She’s laying it out in front of me, giving me a choice.

“Okay,” I agree, because even though she’s giving me the option to say yes or no, it’s not that simple. I can’t say no. 

It only takes her a minute to unload her bags into the trunk and to shove the cart in the nearby corral and I climb into the passenger seat while I wait, thankful for the reprieve from standing any longer. Once she’s buckled in, she pushes the key into the ignition and sends me another careful look. 

“Do you need to call anyone? Let them know where you’re going?” 

My mouth pulls to the side at the absolute absurdity of the idea. Like someone would care enough to want to know where I’m at. I walked out of the house this afternoon without saying anything, and neither my mother or my father spared me a second glance. “No.” 

She doesn’t respond, and instead flips the knobs for the air conditioning and turns on the radio. It fills the silence between us, and I let my gaze linger on the buildings that we pass by as Katniss drives away. Some are the same, but there’s a few new ones that must have been built in the last few years. Others look older, more run down. When I first came home from the hospital, I didn’t want to look outside to see what had changed. It was just more proof of what had happened to me, and I didn’t want to face it. I see now, though, that it was inevitable. People moved on. The outside world kept on going without me. Things changed, and so did I. 

I appreciate the fact that Katniss isn’t trying to force an awkward conversation or ask me a bunch of questions. Instead she just drives, keeping her hand loose on the steering wheel. When my eyes wander over to her, I take the opportunity to look at her. Even though she’s still small, she isn’t as skinny as she used to be. Her green tank top is sticking to her skin, and the loose strands of her hair are fluttering from the vent of the AC. 

In an instant, I’m hit with a memory of her. From before. It was summer, I remember, and she was standing hand in hand with her little sister outside of the ice cream stand while I watched from a table nearby. My friends were being loud, laughing and hollering at each other we ate our cones, oblivious to everything except themselves. There was a breeze that day, and her braid had come loose while she dug through the change in her pockets. It fluttered around her face, and I remember the way she pushed it off her neck, like she was annoyed by it. When she found enough, she traded the wrinkled bills and coins for the ice cream and handed it to her sister. 

Prim. That was her name. 

She had only ordered one, and when they sat on a nearby bench, she watched her little sister with a smile. I wanted-

“It’s just up here,” Katniss interrupts, and I’m rocked back into reality. “On the left.” 

She motions to a grey house on the corner, with dusty white columns on the front porch. I remember this house, too. It’s the one she grew up in. There’s no garage, just paved driveway next to the house where she parks her SUV. 

I would offer to help her carry in her groceries, but I’m useless on the crutch, and I can only watch as she grabs them from the trunk and starts up towards the front door. “It’s just me, here,” Katniss explains when she puts down a few of the bags to dig out her keys. “Sometimes my neighbor barges in but he’s pretty harmless.” 

I’m not sure what she expects me to say, so I nod like it means something and follow her inside. “There’s three bedrooms and two bathrooms, and a laundry room in the back,” I realize she’s going over the details of the ad, even though it’s stuffed into my pocket. “This is the living room, obviously.” 

It’s a big space, with dark wood floors and a soft carpet in the middle. She’s got an old couch and a leather chair set up in the center, facing the wall with the TV. A few pictures are hanging on the walls, and I’m surprised at the flare of curiosity that makes me wonder who they could be of. 

“The kitchen is this way,” she leads me to the kitchen, which is just through an open arch on the other side of the living room. There’s a big dining table pressed up against the back wall, and she dumps her groceries on top of it. “Give me a second to get this stuff in the fridge and I’ll give you the rest of the tour.” 

“Okay,” I agree, and I give her a moment while I look around. The cabinets are old and a little bit worn, and she’s got a pile of mail stacked on one end of the tile counter, next to a pad of paper that’s been scribbled with a list. The sink is half-filled with dishes, and the drying rack is full of clean silverware. There’s a few sticky notes on the fridge, and I catch sight of them as she swings the door open to put away her food. It’s nice, I think. Not like the cold, empty kitchen that my mother likes to keep, where nothing can be out of place. 

When she’s done, she leads me back out of the kitchen. I can tell that she’s still slowing her steps down for me, and it makes my neck feel flushed. Warm. 

“This is the spare bedroom, but it’s just being used for storage right now,” Katniss points to an open door. The room is small, with light blue walls, and it’s filled with boxes and storage containers. There’s a desk pushed back in the corner, but it’s empty. I have to wonder if it was her sister’s room, but she keeps on moving. “This is the second bathroom. The other is attached to my room, so this one would be yours.” 

_Mine._ The word sounds weird, and I brush it off. I’ve never really had anything that was mine, that couldn’t be taken away. 

“This is the room,” she stops at the doorway of the next room, giving me space to limp through. It’s plain, and empty. A thought hits me, and my stomach drops. _I don’t have any furniture._ Not only do I not have any money, but I don’t have any furniture either. How am I supposed to find a place to live when I don’t have any belongings?” 

“What’s wrong?” Katniss asks, her voice soft. She’s not questioning if I’m okay, because she must be able to read my face. She knows I’m not. 

“I appreciate you letting me look,” I try, but it’s forced. I have no practice being polite. “But I should probably go.” 

“Why?” It’s a sharp, harsh response, like she doesn’t understand. _Of course she doesn’t._

I drop the pretenses. “I don’t have any money right now, so I can’t pay rent yet,” I remind her of my earlier comment outside the grocery. “And I don’t have any furniture, either.” I didn’t think this idea through, and my neck burns even hotter now that I’ve put it out into the open. 

She’s silent for a moment, rolling her lips together while she thinks. “When will you have money?” she asks quietly, disregarding the second issue. I would sleep on the floor if it meant getting away from my mother and my father though, but until I get the first restitution check, I’m fucked. 

I shrug. “I don’t know. When the lawyer finishes the appeal, I guess.” 

“Do you want to go sit down?” she switches directions, and I realize I’ve been shuffling my weight back and forth. My ankle, knee, and hip have all started to pulse in a dull ache. 

When I don’t answer, she walks out of the room. I can follow her, or I can stay standing here. Alone. 

By the time I make it down to the hall, she’s sitting in the chair beside the couch, arms resting against her knees. She’s waiting, but her face looks patient. Before I can position myself to sit, she speaks. 

“I’m not going to ask you a bunch of questions, but I do need to why you’re looking for a place to live.” 

“Because my mother wants to kick me out and my father thinks I should be locked up in a psych ward somewhere,” I settle in and lean my crutch on the arm of the couch. When I look over at her, she’s not shocked, but there’s a strange look in her eye that I can’t quite read. It’s not pity, I know that much. If it were, my skin would be crawling. 

“Okay,” she nods, as if she’s accepted the answer. I’m expecting her to push for more, but her next statement sends me spinning. “You don’t have to pay me for right now.” 

I narrow my eyes, and she gives me patient look. “You need a safe place to stay,” she explains. “And I’m not that desperate for money that I’m going to turn you away. You can pay the rent later.” 

“I can’t stay here for free,” I shake my head. I won't be indebted to her. “You don’t know me,” I dig my heels in. “You don’t know if I’m lying or not. I could rob you blind and you’d just let me.” I could do a lot more than that, but I don’t say it out loud. 

“Okay, fine,” Katniss crosses her arms and leans back in her seat. “Where are you getting your money from, then? How are you going to pay me?” 

“Victim’s restitution,” I level my gaze on her. “For all the shit they did to me.” 

The words hang in the air between us, but she doesn’t flinch. Not like I expect her to. Instead she nods and gives me a simple, “Okay.” 

“I can’t stay here for free,” I try again, but it’s not as strong. I want to, even if it means living out of an empty room. 

“Then you can help me,” she proposes. “Just for now. I’ve been having trouble keeping up with this place by myself.” 

I send a pointed look down at the swollen stump where my shin used to be. I’m still oddly numb over losing it, but I’m not stupid. I know that I’ve lost more than just my leg. I’ve lost my independence and any ability to pretend I can live a normal life. She rolls her eyes, and the action makes me want to smile. It’s not an angry thing, but impatient, maybe. “Can you sit on a stool and put caulk around the windows?” 

I’ve never done it before, but I guess it doesn’t sound that hard. When I nod, she mirrors it. “They need to be replaced but I don’t have the money yet, so the next best thing is sealing them up one more time. It’s not that hard, it just takes a little while.” 

“Okay,” I acquiesce. 

“Could you help me with stuff around the house? Like the chores?” She suggests, and I snort. 

“I don’t know how to cook,” I used to help out the bakery, before, but my skills are frozen into what I knew as a 15 year old boy. Which is almost nothing. 

“That’s fine,” she waves me off. “I need to cook more anyways. I’ll cook if you do the dishes.” 

I could… I could handle that. 

“You can keep Haymitch from coming over here and stealing my food when I’m at work,” Katniss smiles dryly, and I think she must be talking about her neighbor. 

“I still don’t have any furniture,” I try to remind her, but I won’t let her know I would be happy just to sleep on the floor. It’s pathetic, how much I want it, and it sends a flash of anger through me that I’ve been so thoroughly ruined. I have nothing. I am nothing, now, except a product of Snow’s tormented mind. 

“You can sleep on the couch for now,” she offers. “I think Haymitch might have a spare mattress he’s not using…” It’s like she’s thinking out loud, and her eyes have gone a little distant. “He owes me anyway.” 

“I can’t let you do that,” I shake my head. 

“You helped me once,” her eyes are on the floor now, and she’s rubbing her palms across her knees. “Consider it repayment.” 

It takes me a minute to comprehend her words, and my neck burns hot again at the reminder. I swipe at it with my fingers, clawing at the skin below my hairline. 

“When do you want to move in?” Katniss asks before I have a chance to form any sort of rebuttal. 

“I-” I don’t know. I wasn’t ready for this to move so quickly. I don’t know what to say, or do, or how to act in front of her. I don’t know how to handle the knowledge that she thinks that she owes me. That she’s carried that debt around for the last six years while I waited to die. It’s too much, and I clench my fists, digging my nails into the skin of my palms. 

“How about I get started on dinner,” pushing herself up from the chair, she walks across the living room as if nothing had happened. “Do you want to stay?” 

The question snaps me out of it. It’s easier to focus on, and I would rather think about something easy, like food, than getting lost in my head. A yes or no question I can handle. “Yes,” it’s a quiet response, but she gives me a quick nod before ducking into the kitchen. 

“Do you like chicken? I was going to roast one with some potatoes for dinner,” her voice floats out from the other room. Honestly, I like anything. Now that I’ve been eating regular meals and my stomach has started to stretch back to a normal size, I’m hungry. So hungry, like my body is trying to make up for all the missed calories. 

Grabbing my crutch, I stand and make my way towards the kitchen. It would feel too awkward to sit on her couch while she cooks for me, and I need to say something. Something I can’t shout from across the room. She’s busy pulling a pan from the cabinet and doesn’t look my way when I step into the space. Which is good, because it makes it that much easier to force the words out. “Thank you.” 

She doesn’t acknowledge it directly, but she does give me a small, brief smile. “Do you want to sit down while I prep this stuff? You can keep me company.” 

Again, it’s a yes or no question. I do want to sit down. I do want to keep her company. I’ve been alone for so long now that being in her presence is… Good. Nice. Comfortable. 

“Okay,” I agree, careful to move around her in the tight space. 

As I take a seat in one of the old wooden chairs next to the dining table, she starts washing potatoes. It’s quick and efficient, the way she scrubs at them under the water with a little white brush. Before long she’s moving on, pulling a whole chicken from the refrigerator and setting it down inside the pan she left on top of the stove. I watch, completely entranced, as she works. Next comes a bag of carrots, some butter, and a container of something white that I can’t quite make out. Once it’s all in place, she starts assembling it together, moving around the kitchen to grab more of what she needs. Salt, pepper, something green from a little pot near the windowsill. Everything goes into the pan with the chicken, and I can feel my stomach starting to gurgle with renewed hunger.

“It looks good,” I try to fill the silence, but the words are stunted. She doesn’t seem to mind, and gives me another little nod in acknowledgment. 

“Thank you,” she doesn’t stop moving, pushing the full pan into the oven. Once it’s in place, she moves to wash the dishes she dirtied. There’s only a few, but it still makes me feel weird, watching her while I’m doing nothing. 

“Can I help?” This was our new arrangement, wasn’t it? I should at least try to make myself useful. 

“Sure,” her agreement comes easily, as if it’s totally normal for me to be sitting in her kitchen while she cooks. When she holds up a dish towel, I join her next to the sink. She washes the dishes, then hands them to me. With my crutch tucked under my arm for support, I can use both my hands to dry them, and we move side by side. 

“Is there anything else you need help with?” Katniss asks when we’re finished. 

“No,” I shake my head and move to sit back down. The walk to town has really messed up my leg, and even the short time standing has renewed the shooting pain. 

She gives me a look that makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. “Nothing at all?” When I shake my head, she raises an eyebrow. “Not even a ride to the doctor?” She eyes the bandage on my leg, knowing. 

“I can find a ride,” I assure her, even though it’s a bold lie. We both know it is, and she shakes her head back at me. 

“I’ll take you.” 

When the chicken is done, she sends me to sit at the table and brings a plate to me. It feels like a parent preparing dinner for a child, and I feel the familiar smack of annoyance that builds in my chest. “I’m not helpless, you know.” 

Her eyes flash to mine, but she doesn’t say anything. She just tips her chin down in acknowledgement, and turns away. Now, she won't look at me. 

After that, it’s quiet. We eat in silence, and I realize that it’s because of me. Because I snapped at her. Because I was a dick. I don’t know what to say, though, to take it back. There’s a small pinprick of fear building in my chest that maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe she doesn’t want to let me stay here anymore, now that she realizes I’m an asshole. I’m still trying to figure out what to say when she stands to take her plate to the sink and sighs heavily. “I’m sorry. I overstepped.” 

Her apology sends a shock through my system, not only because I don’t expect it, but because I realize that I haven’t heard the phrase “I’m sorry” since I was practically a child. I’m stuck floundering, unable to think of any words to say, and she continues. “I know that it must be… tough, for you. Right now.” Katniss chooses her words carefully, and a strange feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Even though I’m full, I feel sick. “I thought I was helping, but I’ll try to remember that next time.” 

_Next time._ “You mean I can still stay?” 

Her face contorts into a mask of confusion. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I let you stay?” 

_Because I’m a terrible, awful person who doesn’t deserve your help,_ I want to tell her. But I can’t. I can’t ruin this, especially if she’s willing to give me another chance. 

“I thought-” I shake my head, because it’s too much. I can’t unload my shit on her. “I’m sorry too.” The words feel weird in my mouth, but I think it’s the right thing to say. It must be, because her shoulders relax a little. 

“I should probably drive you back,” she changes the subject, and my blood runs cold. The thought of going back now, after experiencing this freedom with Katniss, is enough to make me feel like I might get sick. 

“Or did you want to stay tonight?” Her question is casual, but I see the way she glances at me from the side of her eye. I’m tense, so tense, and I know that she can tell. 

“I don’t have any clothes,” my hands are fisted in the loose material of my shorts, but I would sleep in them if I had to. I never had any clean clothes with Snow, so it’s nothing I’m not used to. 

“I think I’ve got a few pairs of Gale’s old sweats in the back of my closet,” Katniss turns, and giving me a small amount of privacy while I try to get a hold on myself. _Gale. Gale_. I focus on the name, and recognition tickles the back of my mind. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe her boyfriend? I don’t know. 

“Okay,” I give her my quiet agreement. “Thank you,” I’m careful now, because I can’t risk messing this up. 

My joints are aching and the healed incision is sending shooting pains up to my hip, and it takes me twice as long to make it back to the couch in the living room as it should. When I settle back into the seat I was in earlier, Katniss catches my grimace.

The doctors sent me home with a bottle of pills for the pain but they make my body feel heavy and off, and it reminds me too much of the injections that Snow used to give me. Even if I don’t go back tonight, I’ll need to tomorrow, because there are other medications I have to take. Steroids, for the inflammation. Antibiotics until the wound on my stump is completely healed. 

“Just so you know, since you’re living here now, I guess… I keep the ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet. Towels are in the closet at the end of the hall, if you want a shower tonight,” she drops a stack of clothes on the coffee table and moves to grab the remote without looking at me. I know what she’s doing, but the strange warmth that blooms across my chest feels weird. Unfamiliar. 

“Thank you,” it’s getting easier to say with every repeat. I would like to shower, but I can’t stand up. I’ve been forced to shower on the floor of the bathtub every day for the last week and a half, and I know that tonight I won't be able to pull myself off the slippery, wet floor. Not with this pain. “In the morning is fine.” 

She doesn’t say anything as I slowly limp along with the clothes tucked under my free arm, and the sound of the TV filters down the short hallway as soon as the bathroom door is closed behind me. When I close the toilet seat and sit down on the lid, I breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s weird, being here in Katniss’ house, but it’s so much better than where I’ve been. 

I don’t bother looking too closely at the t-shirt and sweatpants she’s given me, but they’re soft and worn. They aren’t as big as my other clothes, either, and it feels comfortable to have something that isn’t sliding off my body. Even with the loose space in the pants below my knee, it’s better than what I was wearing. I don’t look at myself in the mirror, either, before I turn off the light and leave. I don’t want to know what she sees. 

The rest of the night is quiet, and after a few hours of watching television in almost complete silence, Katniss excuses herself to go to bed. I’ve been fighting sleep all evening, and I can hardly pay attention to the movie she turns on. It’s supposed to be a comedy, I think, but it isn’t funny. At least, not to me. My eyes keep sliding closed, and the diminishing light from the windows doesn’t do anything to help. It’s a losing battle, and when she finally realizes what’s happening, she tries to apologize. 

“I don’t mean to keep you up,” Katniss stands and stretches. She’s still wearing the same clothes as she was at the grocery store today, even though she’d given me a set of pajamas. They’re a little wrinkled now from sitting curled up in her chair, and I don’t know why my eyes catch on the detail of it. 

“It’s okay,” I try to shake myself awake, but my eyelids feel heavy and rough. It’s been a long day, and my body is still trying to heal itself. 

“I’ll be right back,” she says, and turns the TV off. “I’ll go get you some bedding so you can go to sleep.” 

I can hear her shuffling around down the hall, and the sound of another door opening and closing. “Spare blankets and pillows are in the linen closet with the towels, if you need more tonight,” she tells me when she returns. 

Katniss places the stack on the coffee table the same way she did with the clothes, and steps back out of the way. She doesn’t try to make up the couch for me, but she presses her lips together in what I assume is supposed to be a smile. “Goodnight, Peeta.” 

It’s the first time she’s said my name, and it sends a little ripple of shock through my system. It fills me back up with that strange, warm feeling, and I try to mimic her expression back. “Goodnight.” 

With a nod she turns to leave, and I stand there, waiting, until she closes the door to her bedroom. 

_Thank you,_ I think to myself. 

* * *

I’ve always been a heavy sleeper, even when I was locked up in Snow’s basement. But for the last week and a half, I’ve barely slept at all. It was too uncomfortable in the strange bed that my father bought for the room they put me in. It felt too much like a whole new prison, and I was on edge every single night. 

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, and when I do I come to with a jolt, gasping for air and shooting up into a sitting position. I was in such a deep sleep that I’m disoriented, the room spinning wildly as I try to grasp my surroundings. _Where am I?_ My heart is pounding, and my body goes into overdrive, flushing with adrenaline while my hands grapple around me. I don’t know this couch. I don’t know this room, I don’t-

“Peeta,” My name is a sharp slap back into reality, and the room comes into focus. I’m on Katniss’ couch, in her living room, and she’s standing a few feet away with her hands wrapped around a mug. The rush of blood is still roaring in my ears, and my hands shake as I grasp the blanket that’s draped over the top of my body. “It’s okay,” the words are slow, but she doesn’t move. “You’re at my house. It’s morning. You’re okay.” 

The way she says it makes me wonder if she’s had experience with this. With calming down crazy people who wake up on her couch, ready to start swinging. A cold flush of fear trickles through the adrenaline when I realize that I could have hurt her if she was standing close enough.

“There’s tea in the kitchen if you want some,” she offers, and turns to leave the room. For a moment I sit there, trying to steady my breathing, and I wait. I don’t hear anything else, and I’m not sure where she’s gone. Back to her room, maybe? I don’t know. Probably. I’m relieved for the quiet moment to gather myself, but I still feel weird being here. Like a stranger in someone else’s home. 

Once my hands stop shaking, I lean over to grab my crutch, and I realize that my pain is better this morning. A decent night’s sleep has helped, but I know it’s not enough. It’s going to be a long time, if ever, before it fades completely. 

There’s a kettle on the stove, and it’s still warm when I enter the kitchen. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, and the clock above the stove tells me it’s after 10 AM, which means I slept for almost 14 hours. Katniss has left the pantry open, and the top shelf has a stack of boxed teas on it and I grab one, not caring what kind it is, before I close the door back up. When I turn I find another open cabinet by the fridge, and there's a row of mismatched mugs on one of the shelves. It’s not until I’m steeping the tea that I comprehend what she’s done, and my stomach does a strange little flip. 

I’m still sipping the tea when there’s a sudden burst of noise at the front door, like someone is trying to kick it down. I lean over to look out from my spot in the kitchen, but I don’t know what to do. What I’m _supposed_ to do. 

“What the fuck!” comes a muffled yell, and the handle jiggles, but it’s locked. “Why is the door locked?” 

_“Fucking Haymitch,”_ Katniss comes from down the hall, walking quickly towards the front door. As soon as she unlocks the deadbolt it swings open, but she stops it with her shoe and blocks the opening with her body. 

“You locked me out!” The same voice echoes through the living room, but I can tell that he’s not really angry. Annoyed maybe, but not angry. 

“Yeah,” Katniss replies, and I can hear the sigh from the other room. I’m trying not to be nosy, but it’s hard to look away. “I told you that you can’t always barge in here.”

“You’re the one who called me! I thought you wanted this bed?” 

“Later!” She says. “I wanted it later, Haymitch!” 

“What do you need an extra bed for, anyway?” The gruff voice has dropped lower with confusion. _An extra bed._ The tea is making my stomach feel strange, and I take a shuddering breath before I set it down on the counter. 

“I-” she’s struggling to explain, and I take a few steps out into the living room. I know she hears the hard thump of my foot and the crutch on the wooden floors, and I steel myself. If I’m living here now, we might as well get it over with. 

“You got somebody in there?” he says, growing even more confused. 

“It’s okay, Katniss,” I finally find my voice, and she glances back at me. Our eyes lock for a quick second, and when I nod, she gives in and steps back, letting the door swing open. 

“Well shit,” he says, and I stare back at him when he looks me over. He’s middle-aged and a little bit paunchy, with greasy dark hair and several days worth of stubble on his face. He looks back between Katniss and I a few times, his eyes calculating and narrow. “You takin’ him in?” 

When she nods, he takes another long look at me. He must be okay with what he sees, because after a moment he waves his hand out the door. “What are you waiting for, then? Help me get this bed inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on tumblr @ ambpersand and let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> Huge thanks to my wonderful beta, Ophelia.


	4. Four - Katniss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter include graphic depictions of violence and a description of kidnapping. Please be careful if these issues are sensitive for you.

One bag of clothes and a folder full of paperwork. That’s all Peeta has to his name. 

Even though he told me that was the case, I’m not prepared for the reality of it when he comes back out of his parent’s house with just a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. It hits me like a rock against my sternum, knocking the air out of my lungs and landing heavy in my stomach.  _ He has nothing.  _ I didn’t quite understand at first why he why he was looking for a new place to stay, but it’s becoming so much clearer now. I still can’t believe that a parent could kick their own child out on to the street after everything he’s been through. But if his clothes yesterday were any indication, I doubt they were bought with care, let alone attention. They’re cheap and big, like someone grabbed the first thing they saw and figured it was good enough. Like it wasn’t worth the effort to help him. With every new revelation, my heart cracks open a little more. 

During the ride across town I could see the way he kept stretching and fisting his hands together on his lap, like he was trying to grasp at something. Or ground himself, maybe. I couldn’t tell, and I knew it wasn’t my place to ask. Once we pulled into the driveway, I didn’t offer to come inside or help. It’s been a careful dance between us now, and I realized yesterday that my instincts have pushed me too far over the line. I have to let him do things himself. 

With so little to carry, Peeta is back in my car within just a few minutes, his bag sitting in the backseat. When he reaches to buckle himself in, I risk a glance over at him. His face is drawn tight, and his blond eyebrows are creasing together above his eyes. 

“Anything else?”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t reply. Anxiety starts to tickle in my throat, and I hate that I have to ask him the next question that sits on the tip of my tongue.

“Do you have another crutch?” The one he has is digging into this arm, and last night he was flinching with every step. I know they come in sets of two, but I don’t know why he’s not using the other one. It would be easier, I think, and less painful if he had the second one to balance his weight. 

“I don’t need it,” his voice is sharp, and his hands are fisting together in the material of his shorts. I’ve gone too far, again. Shame blooms deep inside of me, but before I can choke out an apology, I see the back of his neck flushing red. His skin is so pale, now, that it’s impossible to miss. 

“Okay,” I agree, and leave it at that. The rest of our drive is silent, and by the time we make it home, his hands are relaxed against his legs. 

_ This is it, _ I think as we go inside.  _ Peeta Mellark is living in my house.  _ Even though he only has a few sparse belongings and a duffle bag, he’s here now. Safe. 

He must be thinking the same thing, or at least something similar, because when I close the door behind us, his shoulders relax. “I’m going to… put this away,” he says, and for a moment I wonder what he was trying to say. 

_ I’m going to my room?  _ It is his room, now. Even if it is a little empty, it’s his. Haymitch and I worked together to wrestle the mattress into place earlier this morning, and we set it against the farthest wall until Peeta could decide how he wanted to arrange things. I also managed to drag out my old dresser from the spare room for him to use, but I see now that he doesn’t even have enough to fill an entire drawer. 

I don’t have the money to buy him new furniture, but we could head to the thrift store in town to see what they have. A nightstand, maybe, or a cheap bed frame. He needs both, as well as some new clothes that actually  _ fit.  _ The baggy t-shirts and loose shorts only make him look worse than he is. 

I don’t know if it’s from our shared history or the pictures and flyers of him that were plastered across town after he disappeared, but I still remember the way he looked when we were 15. He was stocky, with broad shoulders and thick muscles that won him the state wrestling championship our freshman year. Girls used to swoon at him in gym class when he would move, his shoulders and arms flexing against the climbing rope. Once, when we had enough spare change to buy some cookies at the bakery, I saw him throw an entire hundred-pound sack of flour over his shoulder like it was the easiest feat in the world. 

The color of his eyes is the only thing about him that’s the same now. His blond waves are gone, sheared off into a buzz cut that’s started to grow back in with light-colored fuzz around his head. His muscles have wasted away down to bone, and his joints protrude at severe angles without the cushion of body fat. He was always pale, but now… Now his complexion is so light that I’ve caught glances of blue and red veins below the surface, turning him almost translucent, like he’s a ghost about to fade away entirely. Then, there are the fading bruises and the myriad of scars that weave and cross over parts of his skin. There are so many of them that I can’t bring myself to look at them too closely. I knew if I tried to count, I would lose track and run out of fingers. There are a few scars that are too hard to miss, like the one on his arm, old and a shiny white, that looks like a jagged line surrounded by poorly-sewn stitches. Like a homemade fix. Then there’s the more recent burns, still a harsh, angry red, that marble across his wrist and calf. 

Every single one has a story and none of them are my business. 

I can hear the dull  _ thunk _ of his crutch as he walks down the hall toward the living room, and I have to smooth my face back into something resembling normalcy. I know if I look at him with anything that resembles sadness, or even pity, he will be gone. 

“Katniss?” his voice is surprisingly soft when he finds me on the edge of the couch, staring at my phone screen. When I glance up at him, he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Yeah?” He’s on the edge of saying something, and I don’t want to risk messing it up by trying to fill in the blanks for him. 

“Do you mind if I get some food?” The way he asks it is so small, so reserved, that I almost can’t respond. It’s the first thing he’s asked me for since I brought him home. A quick look at my phone confirms that it’s just after 1 PM, and I haven’t even thought about lunch yet. Aside from his tea when Haymitch barged in, the only thing I’ve seen him eat is an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter when I pushed it toward him. He must be starving.

“Peeta…” I try to keep the sadness from creeping into my voice. He shouldn’t have to ask for that. Ever. “You live here now. You don’t have to ask.” 

“I-” he shifts his weight around and readjusts his crutch. His features twist into something harder, angrier, and he spits the words out. “I don’t remember how to cook.” 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ I remember him saying that yesterday, and the pieces click into place. He’s not angry  _ at _ me, no. It’s obvious once I look a little closer. His eyes are cast down at the floor, distant and unfocused, and his jaw tight with tension. His chest is rising with quick, shallow breaths, and I can feel another pang in my chest when I’m reminded of everything he’s lost. 

“Alright, let’s go find some lunch.” 

When I get to the kitchen, I make a mental note to cook enough for dinner that there are easy leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. Something that he can reheat while I’m gone and won’t take much work. 

“Do you mind sandwiches?” I ask when he finally joins me. His eyes still have a bit of a far-off look to them, so I switch gears. “Plates are in that cabinet,” I point to his left. “Can you grab a couple?” 

I don’t wait to see his response, and instead turn back to grab the loaf of bread from the pantry and the rest of the supplies from the fridge. When I face him again, he’s looking directly at me, and I offer him what I hope is a light smile. “It’s nothing fancy, but I think I have a bag of chips in the back of the pantry too, if you want.” 

I can see a glimmer of interest in his eye at the suggestion, so I set the rest of the items down in front of him by our plates. I pulled everything I have- meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, condiments. I don’t know what he likes, and I’m not even sure if  _ he _ knows what he likes at this point. “Go ahead and get started on your sandwich. I’ll see what we’ve got.” 

It takes a minute of rifling around, pushing past boxes of instant mashed potatoes and old granola bars, but I find what I’m looking for. I had to hide them on the back of the tallest shelf so Haymitch wouldn’t find the bag, but it’s still there, unopened and waiting. 

“Hey,” I suggest when pull the chips down. “How about we go eat on the couch and watch some TV? It’s more comfortable than the chairs in here.” There’s no sense in pretending to be formal when I usually eat my food standing over the sink. 

I almost stop in my tracks when I look down and see the second plate that Peeta has pulled out. His shoulders are stiff as he focuses on his own sandwich, but there are two extra slices of bread sitting out. For me. 

Warmth spreads through my chest at the gesture. It’s small, and probably meaningless, but it strikes a nerve so deep inside of me that I realize that the Peeta who gave me his lunch when we were 15 might not be gone completely. Maybe he’s still in there somewhere, after all. 

* * *

Peeta doesn’t wake when I get up in the morning and get ready for work or when I make my breakfast in the kitchen, even with the noise from the kettle and the microwave heating up a bowl of oatmeal. Even though his door is open, the lump of blankets on the bed doesn’t move, and I risk a glance in before I grab my keys to leave.  _ Do I wake him up and say goodbye? Should I leave food out for him? Do I leave a note that I’ll be back later? Does he even remember I have to go to work?  _ It’s the first time he’ll be alone in the house, and nerves are fluttering in my stomach at the thought of leaving him by himself. 

I settle on leaving him a note, and scribble a quick message on a post-it before sticking it to his doorframe.

_ Peeta- gone to work. Be back this afternoon for lunch.  _

As an afterthought I leave my cell phone number at the bottom, but something tells me he won’t use it even if he does need help. 

Gale is waiting for me as soon as I pull in to the greenhouse parking lot. I can see the angry look on his face through the storefront window, and he’s got his arms crossed over his chest. I don’t need three guesses to know what he’s about to lecture me on. 

“Don’t even start with me, Gale,” I try to cut him off when I get inside, but he’s already fuming. 

“What the  _ hell _ are you thinking?” It would be easier if he was shouting, but he’s not. Instead his voice is low and sharp, like he’s disappointed in me.

Tossing my bag underneath the front counter, I rest my hands against the top and steel myself. “I’m  _ thinking _ that it’s none of your business.” 

“It is when my own mother called me up to tell me that she saw you take Peeta home from the grocery store on Saturday. Or when Thom called me and asked why he saw you parked at The Mellark house yesterday, too,” I know that Gale is just being protective, but the gossip grates against my nerves like sandpaper. 

“Then maybe you should tell them to mind their own business,” I shrug, because it’s the truth. It’s the truth and he knows it just as well as I do. 

He must realize that his tactics aren’t working, because he switches direction, and I’m dumbfounded at the words that come out of his mouth. “He could be dangerous, Katniss. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Neither do you!” My voice has risen to a shout, and I have to ball my fists together to keep from pointing at him. “You have no idea what he’s been through.”

“And you do?” It’s a cruel question, and I can see the judgement in his eyes. 

“I know enough,” it’s all I can say, and even though I don’t know much, I won’t betray Peeta by telling his secrets to anyone else. 

“He could hurt you,” Gale’s voice drops into a tone I can’t quite recognize. It’s not angry, but it’s something smaller and softer. 

“Maybe,” I have to admit, because I saw the way Peeta was thrashing around on the couch yesterday morning before he realized where he was. It’s the same way that Haymitch wakes up from his nightmares, but the only difference is that Haymitch likes to sleep with a knife. “But he needed help, and I wasn’t going to let him live on the street.” 

He sighs and drops his arms to the side. “I’m just worried about you. I want you to be safe.” 

There’s no doubt in my mind that Gale cares about me. He’s been my closest friend since we were teenagers, through the deaths of both our dads and a failed relationship in high school. He cares about me, even if it does manifest in such an annoying way. 

“I will be,” I promise. 

* * *

Peeta must not hear me unlock the door, because he startles when I walk into the living room that afternoon. He’s sitting on the couch, and it isn’t until he hears the noise of the door closing behind me that it breaks his focus from what he’s doing. He doesn’t make a sound, but I can see the way his body flinches and his head snaps around to see who’s come in. 

“Oh, I’m sorry-” I start to apologize, but when he looks up at me, his pupils are dilated and his chest is falling with quick, short breaths. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“I should know better,” he blinks slowly and shakes his head, as if he’s trying to clear his thoughts. Moving slowly, I set my purse down beside the door and take a few steps farther into the room. He’s got his leg propped up and resting on a towel beside him, with a roll of gauze and what looks like a tan sleeve nearby on the coffee table. “I was just trying to take care of my leg.” 

He makes a little motion with his hand, and my eyes are drawn towards his leg. It’s the first time I’ve really taken a closer look at it, and when I do, my throat constricts at what I see. His shin ends roughly five or six inches below his knee, rounded off with a precise line of stitches. The skin around it is puckered and swollen, and I glance up at Peeta to gauge his reaction. He’s not looking at me, instead staring down at his lap, and I stifle the sympathetic noise that tries to come out of my chest. 

“Do you-” I stop myself from asking him if he needs help. “- need anything? I think I have a first aid kit in the bathroom. There might be some antiseptic in there…” I trail off, suddenly feeling awkward. I don’t know the first thing about taking care of injuries or wounds, let alone an incision like that one. 

His adam’s apple bobs heavily when he swallows, and he shakes his head. “I took care of it already.” 

I’m not sure what to say, so I just nod and turn my eyes in the direction of the kitchen to give him some privacy. Before I can make it through the threshold, he speaks again. “I’m supposed to get the stitches out on Friday morning. Could you take me?” 

He’s not as hesitant this time, like the way he was when he asked for food yesterday. I’m happy that I’m not facing him, so he can’t see the shock that’s probably painted across my face. “Sure. Just let me know when.” 

“Thank you,” I almost miss his quiet reply. 

* * *

The next few days pass by without incident, and we fall into a quiet, easy routine. I go to work as usual, come home for lunch, and Peeta falls asleep early every evening, exhaustion shadowing across his face by the time we finish eating dinner. He does the dishes while I’m gone, and one day I find that the cups and mugs have all been carefully arranged in the cabinet, straightened out from the shoddy mess that I usually stack them into. 

On Thursday I come home to find him sitting outside, his face turned up into the evening sun, and he gives me a sheepish look when I catch him swaying lightly on the old porch swing my father built.

“Hi,” I greet him, and I can feel a smile pulling at the edge of my lips. No one’s used that swing since Prim moved out. She used to sneak out at night to talk to her friends on the phone, but she didn’t realize that I could always hear the chain squeaking when she rocked it back and forth. 

“Hi,” his response is stiff, but his eyes meet mine briefly before flitting away. 

“I’m glad someone’s getting some use out of that thing,” I let my smile grow wider, just so he can see it. So he knows that it’s okay. “I never think to come out here.” 

“I like it,” Peeta stops himself, rolling his lips between his teeth for a moment while he thinks. “It’s nice during the day.” 

The last few words sink in like a lead weight when I understand what he’s not saying. 

I don’t know what to say, so I choose the next best option rather than to say the wrong thing. I change the subject. “I was able to get tomorrow morning off,” Gale had only given me a careful look and a nod when I told him that I needed a few hours to take Peeta to the doctor, so I’m taking it as confirmation. “What time is your first appointment?” 

“Nine. Then physical therapy after.” 

“Maybe we could go get some breakfast before?” Not once has he complained about my basic cooking skills this week but even  _ I’m _ getting sick of eating my own food. A spark of interest lights up his eyes in the same way that it did when I brought out the bag of chips on Sunday, and I take it as a win. I know he won't want to go to a restaurant just yet, but I can still grab some food in the drive-thru on the way to his first appointment.

“Okay,” he agrees, but our conversation is cut short by a car pulling up to the curb. The motion catches my eye, and when I glance towards the road, I immediately straighten to put myself between Peeta and the porch steps. 

“Is this the Everdeen residence?” A police officer climbs from his cruiser, his eyes narrowed toward me. 

“Yes,” I cross my arms over my chest. A thousand things are running through my mind, and none of them are good.  _ Did something happen with Prim? Or Gale? Did one of the neighbors call a complaint in? Oh god, was it Peeta’s parents? Are they trying to take him back?  _

“I’m looking for Peeta Mellark,” he gets right to the point, walking up the path to where I’m standing. I can’t look back at Peeta right now. I can’t let him see the panic that’s coursing through my system. It’s racing through my body in a hot flash of adrenaline, lighting up my nerves in case I need to do something. To act. To protect him. 

“How can I help you?” I try to divert his attention, but it’s a lost cause. As soon as he places his foot on the porch steps, his eyes cut over to the swing. 

“Peeta Mellark?” the cop confirms, tipping his head towards Peeta. 

“Yes,” Peeta’s voice is rough, and I risk a look back in his direction. I’m still standing between them, but my feet have become cemented onto the wooden boards beneath me. His eyes are darting between me and the cop, but his jaw is set into a hard line. 

When the police officer pulls out a white envelope from his pocket, I instinctively take a step back towards Peeta.  _ Is it a court order? Are his parents suing him, or something? _

“This is for you,” the officer raises the envelope in his hand, but doesn’t make a move to come any closer. Now that I can see it clearly, it’s plain and unassuming. There’s no telling what’s inside. 

“What is it?” Peeta’s words echo my own thoughts, and he uses his crutch to leverage his body up off the swing. 

“Six years ago some people in town started fundraising for a reward,” I can feel when Peeta inches closer to me, even if the tread of his steps didn’t give him away. He’s still standing behind me, and the officer glances between us before he continues. “It was for your safe return. It’s been sitting untouched for a while, and we thought it should go to you.” 

“A safe return,” Peeta echoes, but his voice is laced with sarcasm. “I don’t know if anything that happened to me could be called  _ safe.”  _

His anger is growing, radiating off his body in waves. A quick look confirms what I already know. He’s fisting his free hand, and the tiny scars that crisscross over the bones are pulled tight, making them stand out more than they usually do. Peeta’s lips are pressed together and his eyes are narrowed, and I don’t know what he’s about to do next. It’s terrifying. 

“You’re alive,” the cop corrects him, but he’s unphased by Peeta’s growing rage. “And whether or not that fire was an accident, you’re the only one who came out of that house for a reason. It’s yours.” 

It’s subtle, the way Peeta’s hard breathing hitches when the officer says the word  _ accident,  _ and a cold sting of fear rises through the anxiety I have for his safety. 

“I don’t want your money,” Peeta spits, but the officer shrugs and pushes it closer to him. 

“I don’t care what you do with it, I’m just here to give you the check. You can cash it, or you can tear it up. It’s your choice.” 

“Peeta,” my voice is soft, but it seems to bring some kind of clarity to his eyes, and he finally blinks away the glare he’s been giving the police officer.  _ You need it, _ I want to tell him, because he does. As much as I want to pretend that he can live in my house forever with nothing but my care, he can’t. He needs things, like clothes and food and furniture. I’m sure he’s going to be saddled with the medical bills from the hospital soon, and how much is his restitution going to cover? Will it even come in, before those bills do?

Or will he try to turn that check away, too? 

“Fine,” he reaches out and snatches the envelope, but he doesn’t look at it any closer. 

The officer gives him a hard look for a moment, but Peeta stands unflinching under his appraisal. Finally, he nods and turns to leave.

“Have a good evening.” 

I wait until the police car is long gone before I work up the nerve to ask him about the check. I would avoid it if I could, but we can’t. He needs the money, and sooner or later, I will need help with the rent. “What do you want to do with it?”

Peeta limps back over to the swing before he answers me. “I don’t know.” His voice isn’t so angry now, and I can see the toll it’s taken on his body. His shoulders are slumped forward, and his lower lip is bright red from the force of his teeth cutting in to it as he chews at the delicate skin. 

I’m torn. I know that it’s not my place to try and tell him what needs to be done, but he has to realize the reality of his situation. He’s been thrust back into the world as an adult, and he won’t be able to get by forever on his pride. I would know. I’ve been poor, and pride doesn’t feed you when you’re starving. 

“Well,” I start, and I settle in at the other end of the swing. The chain creaks with the added weight, and I choose my words carefully. “You could use some new clothes. Or some furniture for your room. Stuff you can pick out and not just my old hand-me-downs.” 

I try to smile at the last bit, but the joke falls flat. 

“I guess so,” the envelope is still crinkled between his fingers. “I have- I had a bank account.”

My eyebrows shoot up, and I’m glad he’s not looking at me. I hadn’t even considered that he would need a bank account. It adds to the growing list of things he needs now that he’s come back from the dead. Clothes and furniture are one thing, but a bank account requires an ID. An ID that I doubt he has. 

“You do?” I hope the question comes out as curiosity, and not surprise. 

“I did, at least,” he shrugs, and turns his head to look at the front yard. It’s quiet, and even Haymitch’s house looks peaceful in the evening breeze. “I set it up on my fifteenth birthday. My brothers and I…. We would get paid a little bit at the bakery. Not a lot, but I wanted to save it. I don’t know what they did with it after.” 

“We can go check, if you want. Or you could open a new account.” I don’t know how, since he doesn’t have a license to prove his identity. Maybe his birth certificate would work, but I’m not sure if he even has that, either. 

Finally, he looks down at the paper in his hands. “Okay,” Peeta agrees. 

* * *

Following Peeta into the doctor’s office is like watching a dream happen from above. From my vantage point, I could see the people in the parking lot were peeking from around their cars as he climbed out of my Jeep, and now the nurses are whispering between themselves while he waits in line. It doesn’t matter how hard I stare at them to catch their attention and draw it away from him, they don’t see me. Only him. I am invisible in the midst of their horror. 

I would have stayed in the car, but I don’t know how long it’s going to take, and running the AC eats up a lot of gas in the August heat. We’ve barely settled into the stiff plastic chairs before a nurse comes through a door off the side of the waiting room. 

“Peeta Mellark?” This nurse at least has the audacity to keep her eyes focused on the chart in her hand. “This way please.” 

He gives me a quick look before pulling himself back up from the chair. It’s guarded, and I can’t see past the blue of his eyes to understand what he’s trying to tell me, but he’s gone before I can ask if he wants me to go with him.

Only fifteen minutes or so have passed before he returns, his face an ashy white. There are beads of sweat dotting his temples, and I immediately shoot to my feet. 

“What’s wrong?” the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, but he doesn’t stop walking. It’s like he’s on a mission to get through the front door as fast as he can. “Just… car.” 

Even with his slowed pace, I have to hurry my steps to catch up with him. He climbs into the passenger seat before I can put my handle on the door, and when I join him, he’s breathing heavy. 

Staring at the dashboard, I watch as Peeta curls his hands into the hem of his shorts and pulls at the fabric before releasing it and repeating the gesture. He’s still wearing the tan compression sleeve around his stump, but the edge has curled down in his haste to leave. 

“Do you need anything?” I try. I can’t ask him if he’s okay- it’s clear that he’s not. The next best thing I can do is try to fix it. 

Peeta takes a shuddering breath, but his eyes don’t move. He doesn’t blink, he just stares as his chest rises and falls with each deep pull. The silence lingers between us, and I finally look away when I realize that he’s not going to answer. The seconds stretch out into a minute, then two, then three, as he works through whatever thoughts are racing through his mind. 

We’re going to have to go soon, since his next appointment is scheduled across town, but as soon as I push my key into the ignition, he speaks. 

“He did that once,” Peeta’s eyes don’t move, but his breathing has slowed down to the point where I have to look close to make sure he’s not holding his breath. His voice is detached and low, and a sense of foreboding unfurls in my stomach. “He tried to play doctor with me. He cut my arm open down to the bone, then felt around inside to see what would happen. To see how loud I could scream.”

I can’t stop the shocked gasp at the sudden admission, and I press my fingers against my lips to keep any more from falling out.  _ Oh my god,  _ I don’t know why he’s telling me this. Why  _ now.  _ He takes my silence as an opportunity to continue, and I can only watch in horror as he tells me the rest. 

“Then he stitched me up, but he didn’t take them out until my skin grew around it. He had to dig them out with a knife.” 

_ Oh god, oh god.  _ I realize now, what he’s saying. How it must have felt in the office to have the doctor snip out the stitches from his leg and pull them from his skin. How it would have echoed the same thing that Snow did in that filthy basement room. I know which scar he’s talking about, but I never realized it could have been caused by something so tormented. Bile is rising in my throat, but I push it back down. If I get sick now, he won’t ever look at me again. 

“Peeta,” he blinks when I say his name, but it comes out as more of a whisper. “Peeta, I-”

His eyes cut to mine, and they’re hard, glinting in the sunlight that’s streaming through the windshield. “Don’t say you’re sorry.” 

I snap my mouth closed, because what else can I say? I’m sure he’s heard it a thousand times since he escaped, and it probably means nothing to him. Saying you’re sorry doesn’t fix what he’s been through. 

“I won’t,” I make him a promise, but I’m not good with words, and I hope that I’m not about to mess things up again. “Next time… I’ll go with you if you want. If you need me to.” 

He stares at me for a moment, and I must have taken him by surprise. “You would?” 

“If you asked me to,” I clarify, drawing the line between us. I can’t keep guessing at what he needs. He’s staring at me now with a look that I’ve never seen before, and the closest thing I can compare it to is confusion. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his mouth is turned down at the corners, and I force myself to look forward again. “But I need you to ask. So I know it’s okay.” 

I finish starting the car and put it in reverse, but Peeta doesn’t say anything else until we’re almost to the occupational therapy office. 

“I would,” he breaks the silence, and it takes me a second to connect the dots. “If you would go in with me. I don’t…. Like to be alone.”

His words almost knock the air out of my chest, and I have to grip the steering wheel tighter to ground myself. If I don’t, I know I’ll break. 

_ I don’t like to be alone.  _ Of course he doesn’t. 

“Okay,” I nod, but I don’t risk looking over at him. If I do I might crumple into a pile of tears and sympathy, and that’s not what he wants  _ or _ what he needs. I’ll have to save it for tonight, when I’m alone and locked in my room. “I’ll go with you.” 

“Thank you.”

“So, what do you do in therapy?” it’s a poor attempt to divert his attention while we walk into the office, but I’m curious. I’ve never been to a physical therapist. 

He shrugs when we make it into the lobby, and thankfully, there’s no one else in the waiting room. “Some exercises for my knee and my hip. They keep talking about how far I can extend the joints before I can qualify for a prosthesis. They taught me how to work around one leg,” I can see the edges of his mouth pulling to the side, but it’s not a smile. 

“Oh,” I answer. I’m not sure what I expected. “Okay.” 

“It’s pretty boring,” Peeta glances back quickly, but it’s too fast for me to read his face. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” my response is almost immediate, but he doesn’t have a chance to reply before the receptionist sticks her head over the top of the check-in desk. 

“Hey, Peeta. They’re ready for you if you want to go back,” she waves towards another door in front of us, and Peeta shuffles ahead. He doesn’t ask her if I can go with him, so I don’t either. It takes him a second to balance on his crutch and open the door with one hand, but he holds it open long enough for me to reach out and take the weight of it. 

“Thanks,” the little gesture makes my chest feel funny again, the same way it did when he set out the bread for me. 

The room is big and open, with exercise equipment on one side and what look like big massage tables lined up against the other. A tall blonde looks up when we enter, and she immediately smiles wide at the sight of Peeta. “Hey, right on time. You’re my only client this morning.” 

He doesn’t respond to her greeting and her smile falls a little, but before I can feel too guilty at the way he’s shrugged her off, she sees me standing behind him. “Hi! I’m Delly.”

“Katniss,” I try to return her smile, but I feel too awkward standing behind Peeta to know what to do or say. “I hope it’s okay I came with him today.” 

“Oh, yes! Absolutely!” She’s a great big ball of cheer, and her sunny disposition almost makes me want to shield my eyes. “The more the merrier! Maybe you can help make sure Peeta’s doing his exercises when he’s not here,” Delly gives me an exaggerated wink, and his shoulders tense up at the suggestion. 

_ Huh.  _ So he’s supposed to be doing exercises at home? I haven’t seen him doing anything, unless he’s been waiting to do them while I’m away at work. If this stuff is what determines his prosthesis eligibility, I’m going to have to start keeping a closer eye on him now. 

“Alright,” she claps her hands together and ushers him towards one of the padded tables. “Let’s get started!”

For the next hour I watch silently as Delly moves Peeta around the room. She starts him off with some simple lower body exercises, testing how far he can extend his leg from the hip, then at the knee. Then they move to a balance ball, which he perches on top of between two ballet bars. They practice some movements with his crutch, and then move to the middle of the room where she starts tossing tennis balls in the air to test his reflexes. He fumbles with the first few, but grows more confident with each catch. 

I watch from a chair against the wall, but he doesn’t look at me for the entire hour he’s working. He stays focused, his eyes narrowed down at his leg while he follows her instructions, but I know he must be aware of my presence. He wouldn’t have asked me to come in if he didn’t really want it, that much I’m sure of. 

After she finishes picking up the lost tennis balls, she gives him a hesitant look. “Do you mind if I check your muscles today?” 

At the question, his shoulders go stiff again. “No.” 

Delly doesn’t miss a beat, and the careful look is replaced by another smile. “Okay, just make sure to stretch tonight, and don’t forget to keep up with your at-home exercises. I’ll see you next week!” 

I can tell as soon as we get back to my car that Peeta is exhausted. He fights it the entire drive home, blinking away the sleep from his eyes every time they start to droop closed. I’ve got to get to work, so I don’t have time to linger when we finally pull into the driveway. 

“There should be plenty of leftovers in the fridge for lunch if you get hungry,” I remind him, and he gives me a short nod to confirm. I’ve been trying to make more food this week, and it’s paid off. The more food that’s around, the more Peeta eats. Even when drove through the drive-thru for breakfast this morning, he was ravenous.

He hesitates once his hand is on the door handle, and he looks down at his foot. “Thanks… for today. For everything.” 

“Anytime,” I try to smile at him, but he doesn’t see it. It’s the truth. 

* * *

He’s awake by the time I get home that night, and I’m too tired to cook dinner. His admission has been weighing on my mind all day, and every time I found myself alone in the greenhouse, I couldn’t help but wonder what other horrible, terrifying things he’s been forced to endure. Every image my mind conjured up got worse and worse, but it probably pales to the reality. 

“Hello?” Peeta isn’t in the living room, and it’s 8 PM since I had to stay late to help a customer load up a trio of bushes into the back of his truck.  _ Is he asleep already?  _

“In here,” his voice floats through the bathroom door, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It was tough being gone at work now that I know how much he hates to be alone. A second later he emerges, his skin red from the heat of the shower spray and dressed in the same pair of sweats I gave him the first night he stayed. His cheeks are pink when he walks closer, but I don’t have the opportunity to wonder why before he speaks again. “Sorry, I had some trouble getting out.” 

_ Oh. Oh god.  _ It’s a simple enough statement, but it hits me like a brick to the face.  _ The tub.  _ Peeta sees my eyes go wide, and he tries to stop me. “Katniss…” 

“No,” I shake my head, willing the wave of emotion to fade. I don’t want to be angry with him for not telling me what he needed, but it’s building inside my stomach with a slow burn. “You should have told me, Peeta.”

He stares at me from his spot a few feet away, but he doesn’t shrug like I expect him to. He just… looks at me. 

“It’s fine. You’re already doing too much for me.” 

Rolling my lips between my teeth, I focus on breathing through my nose. I can’t get mad. I can’t raise my voice at him. I  _ won’t.  _

“I made you dinner.” 

His words are like a wash of ice water, dousing the growing anger and annoyance. He did… “What?”

At my question, I see his cheeks grow red with a blush. “It’s nothing special,” he tries to assure me, rubbing his free hand across the back of his neck. When I glance toward the kitchen, I finally notice the dishes that are sitting out on the counter. 

“Oh, Peeta…” 

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. It’s not very good.” 

Inching closer into the kitchen, it takes me a second to realize what’s in the big pot on the back burner of the stove. It smells like garlic and… chicken. 

“You made me soup?” 

The blush has crept from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and he can only nod when I look back in his direction. It looks like he took the old leftover chicken I roasted and found the other ingredients in the pantry and fridge. Rotini noodles, carrots, and big chunks of celery float in the broth. When I stir it, I notice a few whole cloves of garlic in the mix.  _ Ah.  _ It’s not a bad attempt, even if we will have to pick out the garlic. 

“Thank you so much, Peeta,” moisture is pooling in the corners of my eyes, and I suck in a deep breath through my nose to keep it at bay. “It’s perfect.” 

“Are you sure?” His voice is so small and unsure that a tear almost escapes my lashes, and I have to turn to blink them away. 

“More than anything,” I assure him, but the words are warbled and weak. “Let’s eat.” 

Just like every other night this week, we eat dinner in the living room with the TV playing softly in the background. He takes his usual spot at the end, and I settle in on the chair, and we chew in almost relative silence. Tonight though, he wants to talk. 

The soup isn’t bad, but it is a little bland, even with the hunks of garlic he mixed in. “Maybe I could go buy a cookbook,” he offers, and I’m taken aback by the sudden suggestion. “With the check I got.” 

“If that’s what you want,” I respond, shoveling another spoonful into my mouth.  _ If you’re ready _ , I want to say. 

“I think so,” Peeta nods, but he sets his spoon down and bites at his lower lip while he thinks. “I just…” 

I don’t try to fill the silence, and instead I just wait for him to find the words he’s searching for. I’ll wait for days if he needs me to. 

“They took so much from me… I can’t cook. I don’t know how to drive. I can’t even be outside after dark without feeling like I’m about to lose my mind.” 

“How can I help?” It’s the only thing I can think to say. He doesn’t want my pity, but I can at least try to help make it better. Easier, maybe. 

Staring down at his bowl, Peeta chews on his lip again. “I don’t know,” he answers, and the honesty in his voice is raw. 

I know I can show him how to cook, and to drive, but the last item on his list sends a tiny jolt of pain straight through my chest. 

“Would you want… Would you want me to sit outside with you?” It was obvious that he enjoyed sitting out in the sun yesterday, and I can’t imagine how much he’s missed the fresh air.  _ How long has it been since he’s seen the stars? _

“I-” he starts, but shakes his head. “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

“Whenever you think you want to, just say the word,” even if it’s two in the morning, I’ll drag myself out of bed and into the backyard if it will help him feel better. 

“That’s when they took me,” his eyes have grown distant, and he’s still looking down at the empty bowl in front of him. “At night.” 

I want to say that I know, but he doesn’t need to know that. Even so, I don’t know the finer details. No one does, except for him and his captors. I have a feeling this is the first time he’s said this out loud, and I don’t want to ruin any progress he’s about to make. 

“That night,” Peeta starts, but shakes his head like he’s trying to clear the fog away. “I was out with my friends. They were supposed to give me a ride home…” his voice is growing scratchy and thin, and my skin erupts in goosebumps. That same feeling of foreboding I felt earlier this morning has taken hold of my heart, wrapping around it with cold, icy fingers. 

“My mom always threatened to lock me out if I missed curfew, but Marvel and I lost track of time. I didn’t realize it was after ten, and even though we rushed back to my house…” he drags both of his hands across his scalp, leaning forward into himself. “I was too late. I told him to go back home, and I thought maybe I could convince my brother to unlock the door after she went to sleep.”

“Peeta,” I can’t stop the way I reach for him, placing my hand against the table just a few inches away, but he’s so far deep into the memory that he doesn’t notice me anymore. 

“I couldn’t get Rye to come to the window, so I sat outside the back door for a while hoping he might show up, but he never did. I must have dozed off underneath the tree, because I woke up a little while later and Snow had a knife to my neck.” 

I gasp, but he doesn’t hear that either, and when I raise my hand to my mouth it’s trembling. 

“He had this… look. In his eyes. His wife was parked in their van right in the driveway. Anybody could have seen. But he told me to stay quiet, and I thought maybe if I did, he would take what he wanted and leave me alone. I don’t know why I thought he wanted to rob me. I didn’t have any money. I just didn’t realize he wanted  _ me. _ ”

_ Oh god,  _ nausea is turning my stomach sour with every word, but I swallow to keep it down. 

“He made it sound like he just wanted to take me for ransom, and he said if I did what he was told, it would all be okay. So I stayed quiet and I let him take me into their van. I didn’t even fight back,” even though I can’t see his face, I know that there are tears tracking down his cheeks as he rocks back and forth. “I didn’t even fight back.” 

“Peeta,” I choke his name out and move to the spot next to him on the couch. As much as I want to touch him, I can’t. Not yet. I don’t know if it’s what he needs, and it could make it worse. Right now, he just needs to know that he’s not alone. “It’s okay. I’m here now. You’re with me.”

I repeat the words, over and over, until his swaying stops. I don’t know how much time has passed but when he finally looks up, his eyes and nose are a bright, angry red. “I’m so tired, Katniss.” 

His admission nearly breaks me in half, and I have a feeling that as soon as he goes to bed I will collapse into a heap on the floor. “Let’s get you to bed, then. It’s late,” I know that’s not what he means, but it’s the only thing I can offer him. He’s exhausted himself mentally and physically today, and he’s earned the reprieve of sleep. 

* * *

I wake with a start, jolting into consciousness at the sound of screams that echo through the house, and I suck in a deep breath when I comprehend what’s happening.  _ Peeta.  _ My body is moving before I even have time to think, my feet slamming against the floor as I run towards him. I don’t even bother to pull a robe on over my sleep shorts and tank top, and instead fling the bedroom door open and to sprint down the hall. It’s never felt this far before, and my heart is racing, pounding hard and fast in my chest. He lets loose another pained shout, and my urgency ratchets up. I have to get to him as fast as I can. When I get to his open door, my stomach drops. He’s thrashing around in his bed, kicking and screaming at the comforter that’s twisted around his legs. 

“Peeta!” I shout at him, but he doesn’t hear me. “Peeta! Peeta!” Nothing is getting through to him. 

“Peeta, it’s just a nightmare,” I try to wake him with a soft press of my fingers to his arm, but he pulls it out of my reach as soon as my skin makes contact. 

“No!” He shrieks, “Don’t touch me!” His screams are easier to understand now that I’m standing above him, but it doesn’t help. I have to get him out of whatever nightmare he’s stuck in. 

“Peeta! Peeta wake up!” I’m shouting louder than he is now, but it’s still not making any difference. “Peeta!” In a last ditch effort I press my palm against his shoulder, trying to pull him back into reality with me. 

He hands move faster than I can comprehend, wrapping around my arm and yanking me down closer. Closer, so he can latch them both around my neck. 

“No!” Peeta screams as he presses down against my throat. “I won't let you touch me!” 

I can only gasp, struggling for air, but he doesn’t hear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, uh, let me know what you thought? I'm on tumblr @ambpersand!


	5. Five - Peeta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter includes descriptions of suicidal thoughts and some mention of a razor. Please read carefully.

His breath smells like rot and there’s blood dripping out of his mouth down onto my face. 

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

_ Drip.  _

“No tears for me today, boy?” Snow drags the knife down the side of my cheek, the sharp tip like a needle against my skin. “Let’s see how long it takes to change that.” 

“No!” I thrash beneath him, but it’s no use. He’s too big, too strong. His wife, Alma, is holding down my legs so I can’t move. She doesn’t join in often, but when she does…. It’s going to be bad. I can feel it. He trails the knife down lower, across my neck, then my chest. My heart is pounding at a rapid-fire, pounding against my chest like a hammer. The room is spinning, tilting on its axis.

I have to get him off. I have to get away. He’ll kill me tonight, I can feel it. 

“Don’t touch me!” I scream, but the words don’t come out right. My mouth feels heavy and dry.  _ Did he drug me again? _ “No!” the word is barely a whisper, and he laughs. The madness of it echoes in my ears. 

“How about,” he pauses to dig the serrated edge in to my thigh, “we see how loud you can scream today?” 

My throat is raw, but it doesn’t matter how loud I try to scream. How hard I try to kick and shove, they won’t move. They don’t care. 

“Peeta!” Someone is shouting my name, but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. Is it me?  _ Have I finally gone mad? Like him?  _ “Peeta!” 

At once, Snow raises the knife and plunges it deep in my foot. A flash of burning pain shoots up my leg, and my screams only serve to make him laugh louder. My body is writhing, but I can’t get away from them. “Hold still, you little shit.”

As soon as he pushes my shoulder down, I move on instinct. It’s my only chance. I grab his arm, and the last thing he expects is for me to pull him closer, rather than push him away. A flash of confusion moves across his face, but I don’t wait for him to realize what I’m about to do. I have to kill him. I might be weak from the lack of food and sunlight, but I’m fueled by enough rage. If I can’t get out of here alive, neither can he. I’m surprised when my hands can fit around his neck, my thumbs pressing down into the hollow of this throat.

He gasps, but it doesn’t sound like him. 

_ Katniss.  _

Suddenly, the dream morphs into something else entirely. I’m not in the basement anymore. My hands aren’t wrapped around Snow’s neck, choking the life out of him. They’re wrapped around Katniss’s. Her lips are turning blue and she’s clawing at my hands, trying to get out of my grasp. 

_ Oh god. Oh no. Katniss.  _

I’m frozen in shock, and it takes a moment for my body to follow, but she moves fast enough to take advantage of the opportunity. Forcing her thumbs under mine, she wrenches them forward and out, sending a bright flash of pain through the joint. It hurts, but it works. It frees my hold from around her neck and the sensation grounds me, clearing the rest of the dream from my vision. 

Katniss makes a strangled noise as she collapses to the floor, her hands coming to rest around her neck. Like she’s protecting herself.

“Katniss,” my voice is thin and weak, and I can see that my hands are shaking. I can’t feel it, but when I reach out towards her, my fingers tremble in the air. 

“No,” she cries, scurrying away from me on the floor. She looks like a wounded animal, her eyes bloodshot and red, trying to get to safety. “Don’t touch me.”

“I--” I need to get to her, I need to see if she’s okay. “I--” her figure blurs, and the room starts to tilt on its side.  _ What’s happening?  _ Blood is pounding in my ears, a dull roar that drowns out the noises Katniss is making as she tries to suck in lungfuls of air. When she makes it to the door, she doesn’t even look back at me. 

“Katniss!” I have to let her know that it was a mistake. An accident. I didn’t mean it--I thought he was going to kill me. It felt so real that I couldn’t tell where the nightmare ended and reality started. “Katniss!” 

Something wet falls against my arm, and when I look down, I see another drop land on my skin. Tears are tracking down my cheeks, and it takes me a moment to realize that’s why my vision is so blurry. I’m crying. No, it’s not crying. I’m sobbing, and the ragged breaths that shudder through my body are enough to make me curl over on to the bed. 

My legs are still twisted in the blankets, and I’m trapped. Stuck. 

“Katniss!” I call out one more time, but she doesn’t come back. 

I don’t know how much time passes, but somehow I end up pressed into the corner of the room, hunched against the wall behind the dresser. The dresser Katniss gave me, not even a week ago. 

My vision blurs again and I press my temple into the sharp corner of the wood until I can feel the blood trickling down my cheek. 

_ Katniss.  _

_ Katniss. _

_ Oh god, Katniss.  _

I flex my fingers against the air, grasping for something. Anything. The sound of her choked gasp replays in my mind, over and over again. How she looked at me, like she was scared I would kill her if I touched her again. 

I could, but I would rather kill myself first. 

_ Katniss.  _

The only thing I can do is wrap my arms around my chest, but it doesn’t help the way my ribs feel like they’re about to crack open. 

_ Katniss.  _

Slowly, the sun peeks through the window until it floods the room with light, but I don’t move. I can’t. 

_ K _ _ atniss.  _

The sound of a shower running breaks through the haze, but all it does is remind me of her. Of what I’ve done. Is she trying to scrub off the bruises that my fingers left behind? 

_ Katniss.  _

_ Oh god, Katniss.  _

_ What have I done? _

Heavy footsteps thump across the floor, but I don’t see them or hear them. It’s only the rhythmic pounding that rattles the old wooden boards that signals someone else is in the house, but it means nothing. It’s not Katniss, I know that much. Her light steps never make more than a whisper when she walks. 

_ Katniss.  _

At some point, I’m going to have to get up and leave. I don’t have anywhere to go, but I know I can’t stay here anymore. I’ll pack up my clothes into the duffle bag I brought, and I’ll find a place to sleep for the night. Or maybe… 

“Mellark,” a gruff voice startles me from my fog, but I don’t have the energy to lift my eyes. There’s a dark stain on the wood that stretches and swirls, and my gaze tracks it, over and over. “Mellark,” he barks louder. 

_ Haymitch?  _

“What happened?” A blurry figure crouches down in front of me, and I press my face against the dresser again. It cuts into the scab, sending brief pinpricks of sensation across my cheekbone. It feels good, and I press against it harder. 

“Katniss,” It takes my mouth a few tries to work again, opening and closing noiselessly until I can force the words out. “Katniss,” my eyes are burning now, and I wrap my arms tighter around my abdomen. 

_ What have I done? _

“I know, kid, I saw her.” 

“Katniss,” I croak, but it’s incoherent. Is she okay? Is he here to drag me out into the street and kill me? He should. It would save me some time. 

“She’s okay,” his voice drops to something softer. “She’s rattled, but she’s okay.”

_ “Katniss, _ ” I break down into a sob, sucking in sharp gasps of air. Hot, fat tears begin to fall from my eyes, and I can’t stop myself from rocking back and forth. Over and over again, so I can feel the way my bones dig in to the hard floor. 

“Look at me,” Haymitch tries, but my eyes don’t move. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at anything besides the dark pattern on the floor. When I don’t, his hand pushes my chin up, forcing me. “What happened?” 

“I-” the words are stuck in my throat, but my vision is starting to clear now. “It was a nightmare,” the words are garbled around the cries that are slowly suffocating me. 

“You were asleep?” he’s still holding my chin up, peering down at me with a hard stare. He’s got the same silver eyes as Katniss, and I shudder with another round of renewed sobs. 

_ Katniss.  _

“Yes,” I try to stay with him, nodding my head against his hand. “I thought--Snow--he was--” 

“You were back there,” he fills in the gaps when I can’t make it through the words. “In that house.”

“He was--my leg--” 

“You’re okay now, kid. I’m here,” since he’s holding my chin in his palm, I’m helpless to watch him as he settles his body down onto the floor in front of me. Slowly, it feels like he’s pushing away the fog, and the feel of his skin against mine is becoming more prominent. It’s hot, burning like a brand where his fingertips press against my jaw. I didn’t notice it before, but I can’t ignore it now.  _ How long has it been since someone has touched me?  _ “You’re okay.” 

_ I’m okay. Am I? No. No, I can’t be.  _

“Katniss?” 

“She’s okay too, but you gave her some nasty bruises,” even though his voice is still gentle, his eyes are hard. “You could have killed her.” 

“I know,” my chin is starting to tremble, quivering as I try to stop the tears that keep growing in my eyes. I can’t get back to the scab on my cheek, so I bite down on my lip as hard as I can until I taste the metallic tang I’m looking for. I don’t feel it, but it’s there. 

It’s not that I could have killed her. I  _ almost _ killed her. 

“Did you mean to?” 

“No,” the word comes out as another sob, tracking more wetness down my face. It’s salty against my mouth and I’m sure it’s mixed with blood, but I don’t care. 

“Good,” he nods, but his face is all twisted and hard. It’s not good. It’s  _ not.  _

“I need--” I choke, “I need to go--” 

“And where do you think you’re going to go, kid?” Haymitch’s face softens a little, but it doesn’t matter. My stomach is rolling with nausea and I know I can’t stay here. Not now. Not after what I’ve done. 

“You think you’re going to go live on the street or something? You’re not just going to walk out of here,” he shakes his head at me and drops his hand. I can still feel the tingling imprint of his fingers against my skin, and I bring my hand up to claw at the spots. It’s not right. 

“I can’t stay here,” the sharp slice of my nails against my jawbone feels better, and I dig them in a little harder. “I can’t.’ 

“Peeta,” his voice is sharp and his hands come to land on my shoulders, holding me still. I didn’t realize I had started rocking in place, back and forth, until he forces me to stop. “Stop this. You’re okay. Katniss is okay. She isn’t kicking you out.” 

“She should,” I shake my head, but in his hold I can’t get anywhere, I push back against him, because I need to move, I need to claw at my skin and pull it away, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left of me. Nothing left to hurt Katniss, or fuck her life up any further than I already have. “I have to go… I have to go. Please, just let me go.” 

It feels like a chant, and maybe if I repeat it over and over, he might give in. 

“It was an accident,” he moves his hand back to my chin and forces me to look at him. “Say it for me.”

“It was an accident,” I mimic his words, but they don’t mean anything now.  _ She’ll never forgive me. And she never should. _

“I’m going to stay here with you guys for a few days, until she’s better. Okay?” 

My vision blurs with a fresh set of tears, and I shake my head, dislodging his grasp. He’s staying, because I’m a danger to her. Because it’s not safe with me here. “I have to go,” I try to tell him, but he’s just not  _ listening.  _

“The only place you’re going to go right now is to the bathroom. Let’s get you into the shower, okay? You’ll feel better after that.” 

“No,” I try to fight back, but there’s nothing left in me when he puts his hands underneath my armpits and pulls me to my knees. “No, please…  _ I’m sorry. _ ” 

“If you’re sorry, you can work to make this right,” he shakes his head at me, like he’s trying to talk sense into a child. 

“How?” I shudder a gasp out, because I know the answer already, and the truth is like a hot knife, right into my chest. There’s nothing I can do to make this right except to end things entirely. I need to get myself as far away from Katniss as I can and to make sure that I’m never a danger to her again. 

“You need to get better,” when he puts his arm underneath my shoulders and pulls me the rest of the way to my feet, I don’t fight him. I feel like a ragdoll, limp and lifeless. Like I should be. “You need to want to get better. For yourself, but for her too.”

“I don’t--” the words get lodged in my throat, and I try to suck in air through my nose. It’s stuffed up and my face feels like there’s a thousand pound weight is sitting on top of it. I’m too tired to fight now, despite the fact that my will to live has only been fueled by my anger at Snow and his wife since the moment I woke up. They were lucky enough to die, but I had to keep on suffering. Now, though... It’s gone, all of it, like there’s nothing left. I’m empty, finally. Completely and utterly drained of any desire to keep going. “I don’t know how.” 

My fingers automatically grip his shirt when he starts walking, and his voice goes quiet as he leads me out into the hall. “She can’t fix you, so you’re going to need to talk to someone. A professional. That’s the first step.”

When I think about the therapy order that’s sitting at the bottom of the hospital bag, I shake my head. There’s nothing they can do. They won’t understand me. They won’t understand any of it. “There’s no point. I just need to go.” 

“Do you want Katniss to be safe?” His question is gentle as he lowers me down onto the edge of the tub, and when I look up at him, his forehead is wrinkled. I don’t get where he’s trying to go with this. 

“Yes,” that’s the only thing I want. She deserves to be safe more than I ever will. 

“Then you’re going to call and make an appointment with the therapist, because that’s the only way you’re going to get through this. If you don’t want to do it for yourself right now, fine. But at least do it for her.” 

For her. It’s been so long that I don’t even remember how to  _ want  _ to do something for someone else. For six years, I’ve only had to think about myself. My survival. “For her?” my voice starts to waver again, and that watery, burning feeling comes back to my eyes. 

“She can do her best to help you, but you and I both know it’s not fair to put all your shit on her shoulders.” 

“For her,” I nod, blinking loose a fresh set of tears. Even if it’s only temporary, until I can find a way to leave and make sure Katniss is safe for good. 

“Alright,” he sets his hands on his hips like he’s satisfied with my answer. “Now do you want to do this yourself or am I going to have to force you to shower with your clothes on?” 

_ What?  _ Oh. The shower. “I don’t care,” I shrug, but my fingers go to the hem of my shirt. The shirt Katniss gave me, the first night she brought me here. I’ll have to give it back when I leave, and the thought makes my fist pull tight against the fabric. 

Haymitch’s eyes drift across the tub and they briefly narrow, but before I can catch what he’s looking at, he reaches out and snatches the razor from the soap holder. For how old he is, he’s surprisingly fast. “I don’t think you’ll need this right now, so I’m just going to take it with me.” 

My stomach plummets when I realize what he’s done. I should have seen it first. I should have hidden it underneath my hand, so he didn’t notice. So I could have a chance. “Okay.” 

“Now take a shower. If you don’t turn that water on in a few minutes, I’ll come in here and do it myself.” 

He doesn’t wait for me to respond, instead tucking the razor into the back pocket of his old worn jeans before closing the door behind him. I don’t waste any time stripping off my clothes, because I know that any privacy he’s giving me isn’t something I deserve. He should be forcing me to sit in here with the door open so he can keep an eye on me. But he’s not, and I don’t know why. 

I’ve only been sitting under the shower spray for a few minutes when his heavy fist lands on the door. “Got new clothes,” his voice is gruff, but I don’t look out from behind the shower curtain when he walks in. 

“Are these really yours?” he asks. I don’t know what he’s pulled from my meager pile of belongings, nor do I care. 

“I guess,” I watch as the soap suds from my hair spiral down the drain. The hot water is bringing the circulation back to my hands, and I hate that it makes me feel better. I  _ shouldn’t _ feel better. I don’t deserve to, not when Katniss is hurt because of me. I should still be on the floor banging my face against the corner of the dresser.  _ No,  _ I think.  _ Even that’s too good.  _

“Katniss…” just saying her name makes my voice crack, “She was going to take me to get new stuff…” I can’t tell if fresh tears are tracking down my cheeks, or if it’s the water from the showerhead. “But now... “ I don’t deserve new things. I don’t deserve anything, let alone her kindness or her patience or even a room in her home. I could never earn that now.

“You call that therapist as soon as you get out of the shower, and I’ll take you to get some new clothes,” his offer is forced, and I shake my head even though he can’t see me. 

“No,” I swallow past the fresh lump in my throat. “There’s no point.” 

“There is,” he sighs heavily, and I can feel the weight of it from across the bathroom. “You didn’t make it out of that house alive just to try and kill yourself.” 

Cold dread smacks deep in my chest, and his words hang in the air. He’s never going to leave me alone if he knows what I’m going to try to do. 

“I shouldn’t have made it out of that house,” I say, because it’s my only response. I shouldn’t have. I should have died down there in that basement like I was supposed to. Like I  _ meant _ to. 

“It doesn’t matter what should have happened, kid,” there’s a noise, like he’s sitting down on the lid of the toilet, maybe, and he lets out a loud sigh. “What matters is that you made it and they didn’t. They deserved to die for what they did to you, and you got to live. You got a second chance.” 

“I didn’t want a second chance,” the water is starting to go cold now, but I can’t bring myself to lift my hand and turn the water any warmer. I don’t need it, or want it. “I just wanted it to all be over.” 

“I wish I could tell you what you need to do, but I can’t. I can only tell you that you’d be stupid if you didn’t go get help, and if you even think about trying anything right now, you’ll break that girl’s heart.” 

“I can’t hurt her any worse than I have,” the words slip out without meaning to. Even though I know that I could kill her, I don’t know if my body would let me do it. I’d rather go back to Snow’s basement and burn it all down again before laying a hand on her. This time I would get it right, though. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says, like it’s final. “I know you’re not used to dealing with other people now, but she’s got feelings just like you do. Whether you understand them or not, we all do. And she cares about you, so that means you’ve got the power to hurt her with more than just your hands.” 

I don’t know what to say, so I let his words run though my mind a second time. Then a third, and a fourth. Over and over again. He’s right, about the first part at least. How long has it been since I’ve thought about anyone’s feelings? Not even my own, because I learned how to stuff down my emotions as soon as I realized no one was coming to help me in that basement. I buried them as deep as I could, because it was easier to not have to deal with anything except the physical pain that I had to live with. 

I couldn’t handle anything more than that without breaking entirely. But in the end I still ended up broken.

“You ready to get out of there?” he pushes a towel into the shower, and I force my body to move so I can turn off the water before it gets soaked entirely. “Get dressed and make the appointment. I’ll find us some lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” I croak, pressing my face into the soft fabric of the towel. It’s another luxury I shouldn’t have been afforded, and don’t deserve now. 

“I don’t care. You’re too skinny.” 

* * *

“This the place?” Haymitch peers out of the windshield at the plain building in front of us, shooting me a weary glance. 

“I don’t know,” I shrug. The sign out front says  _ Aurelius Counseling Services _ so it must be. “I think so.” 

As soon as I called and gave them my name, the receptionist had gone into a frenzy. Apparently I was overdue for my appointment, and they had been trying to get ahold of me ever since my discharge from the hospital.  _ Not hard enough, apparently.  _

“Well let’s go then,” he doesn’t wait for me to pull my crutch from the backseat of his car, and climbs out. 

“You’re going?” I try to catch up with him, but he’s not waiting for me. 

“Yep.” 

_ Huh.  _ That’s it, then. I wait for the telltale flare of anger in my stomach, but it doesn’t come.  _ Weird.  _

Dr. Aurelius had taken the call as soon as the receptionist said the words  _ Peeta Mellark _ , and cleared his schedule so I could come in immediately. 

_ Probably just dying to get a look at the boy wonder.  _

“Come on, then,” Haymitch urges me on, keeping the door open with one hand while I shuffle forward. 

“You don’t need to be here for this,” I try to discourage him. He’s already done enough just bringing me here. After my shower, once I felt as close to human as I could, he handed me his phone with an expectant look. He sat at the dining table while I dialed, and once the call was over, shoved a messy sandwich in my direction and watched me eat it bite by bite. 

“You think I’m going to leave you alone? After everything?” he pins me with a hard look, and a stray thought emerges in my head.  _ Isn’t this what parents are supposed to do?  _ But he’s not my parent. He’s practically a stranger. Even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t know the first thing about how parents are supposed to treat you. “The last thing you need right now is to be left alone. You got six years of isolation, you don’t need anymore of it now.” 

His words drop down into my stomach like a lead weight. No one has said that to me before. But unlike Katniss and her kind understanding, Haymitch isn’t worried about what I might think or how I might react to him. I don’t know how to deal with it, and it leaves me feeling a little unsteady. 

“It’s okay,” I still try to shake him off as I hobble into the office. “You probably have other stuff to do anyway.”

“Do you want me to be here?” he grunts. 

_ No. Yes. I don’t know.  _ My entire body is a mess of emotions, and I don’t know which way is up. I still feel like I’m on the verge of tears after this morning, but nothing comes out of my eyes when I blink through the feeling. When I don’t answer, he snorts a laugh. 

“Then I don’t have anywhere else to be. Now go get checked in.” 

He takes a seat in one of the waiting room chairs, and the receptionist does a double take at the sight in front of her. 

“Oh,” she scrambles to stand. “Peeta! Hello! Thank you for coming in so soon. Let me to get Dr. Aurelius.” 

She’s gone before I can say a word in response, and I blink over to Haymitch, but he’s already several pages deep into one of the wrinkled magazines they have laid out on the tables. 

Soft music filters in through the speakers overhead, and I grip the handle of my crutch until the skin pulls tight on my knuckles. It burns a little, and I breathe through the sensation. 

_ I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here.  _ All he’s going to do is to try and poke around in my head, to see just how fucked up I am from Snow and his torture. He’s going to ask me questions about what happened, to make me relive every single detail, and then he’s going to lock me up again once he realizes how ruined I am. 

If he finds out that I almost killed Katniss, they might not even let me leave this building. 

_ Maybe that would be better,  _ I think.  _ Maybe that would be the best option. And they can dope me up and keep me in a straight jacket forever.  _

The brief thought sends a blast of cold fear racing through my veins. As much as I want to keep Katniss safe, I can’t be trapped like that. Not again. I’ll die first. 

“Peeta?” a voice breaks me out of my trance. “I’m Dr. Aurelius. Thanks for coming in so quickly.” 

There’s a man standing in the doorway to my left, short and thin with tiny round glasses perched on his nose. Small enough that I could probably kill him if he tries to keep me here. At the very least I could subdue him long enough to get away. But then what? I won’t get far with Haymitch in the waiting room. 

“Hi,” I force myself to blink. Anger is starting to churn in my chest again, and I sigh against it. It’s familiar and warm, better than the emotions earlier that made me feel like I was drowning. 

“Do you want to come back to my office so we can get started?” 

_ No.  _ “Fine.” 

My stomach twists tighter and tighter with each shuffled step towards him and I can’t help but think that this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t be here. I should be trying to find a way  _ out.  _

He doesn’t look back at me as he leads me through the door and down the hall towards what I have to assume is his office. I keep track of the doors we pass, just so I can remember them in case I need to leave. A bathroom. One marked  _ closet.  _ Another office, I think, but it’s empty. 

“Right in here. You can have a seat on the couch, if you’d like,” he motions toward a maroon sofa pushed up against the far wall. It’s covered in overstuffed, fluffy pillows, and I can’t suppress a snort. 

_ Get comfortable _ , he’s saying.  _ So we can talk about all of your sins.  _

“How have you been feeling lately?” he prompts when I lower myself down. The couch is too soft, and I sink in between the pillows. 

“Fine.” 

Glancing at me above his glasses, Dr. Aurelius grabs a notebook and sits in the chair nearest me. “Really?”

“Yes,” I answer, not willing to budge. 

“No problems at all then? I heard that you left your parents’ house.” 

I narrow my eyes.  _ How does he know that?  _

“When we were trying to call to get you scheduled, your mother hung up on me and said that you decided to move out.”

“Is that what she said?” I let my eyes wander across the room. There’s a small window to the right, and a small white machine near the door making a soft  _ whirring  _ noise. I wonder if I can jump out of it, if I need to.  _ If I do, will the glass shards cut into my skin?  _ “That’s funny.” 

It’s not, but he doesn’t know that. 

“Do you want to talk about why you moved out so soon after your discharge?” He furrows his eyebrows at me and sets the notebook back down, like maybe he’s changed his mind. 

“It was either that or get sent back to the hospital and locked up in the psych ward,” I don’t bother lying, unlike my mother. 

“She threatened that?”

“My father did,” I clarify. “She didn’t care where I went as long as I wasn’t in the house anymore.” 

He blinks a few times while he processes what I’ve just said. 

“And you don’t want to go back to the hospital,” his words are more of a statement than a question, and I shake my head. “That’s very understandable. I would imagine that might feel…” he searches for a moment. “A little too familiar.” 

When I narrow my eyes, he doesn’t flinch.  _ Is he joking?  _ “What do you mean?” I play dumb. 

“You spent six years in captivity. I can see how going to an inpatient unit would be the last thing you would want.

“You do?”

“Of course. You deserve freedom, Peeta.”

I grasp at the edge of my shirt. It’s loose, and the excess fabric bunches in my hands. When I don’t respond, he makes a strange noise in the back of his throat. 

“I know you probably don’t want to talk to me. And I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I will tell you that I’m not going to send you to an inpatient unit, no matter what you say in this room. You’re here on your own terms and I know that takes a lot of courage.”

My eyes shoot back up to his, and I have to resist the urge to grab my crutch and leave. I wonder if he would stop me if I tried.  _ Is he serious?  _ “Really?”

“Absolutely,” he nods. “You’re an adult, Peeta. I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

“You won’t… make me?” 

“I can’t make you do anything. If you want to talk, we can talk. If you want to ask me questions about the world or my job or anything else, we can do that too. If you want to leave, you can leave. But I won’t make you do anything you’re not ready for.” 

“Oh,” I breathe. I don’t know what to say.  _ He can’t make me do anything I’m not ready for. He can’t. He can’t.  _ The words sound like a foreign language, almost. 

“Do you want to talk to me today?” he asks, his voice going softer. “I’m very happy that you called and made the appointment, but I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready yet.”

“I don’t--” I shake my head and pull at the hem of my shirt again. My fingernail catches in the stitching and I look down at the snag. “I don’t know.” 

Haymitch said I needed to. For Katniss.  _ I don’t know how.  _

“Okay,” he says simply. “Do you mind if I just ask you some questions then? If you don’t want to answer any of them, you can just say so and we’ll move on.” 

“I--I guess so,” I’m spinning.  _ He’s not going to make me?  _ I don’t believe him.  _ He must be lying.  _

“How has your appetite been lately?”

_ My appetite?  _ “Fine…. Hungry, I guess,” I answer, hesitant.

“That’s good,” he nods. “And you’ve been going to your other appointments, too?”

“My physical therapy, yeah,” I confirm.  _ Why isn’t he asking me about Snow?  _

“Have you been keeping up with the exercises?” 

“When I can,” I shrug, glancing toward my crutch. Not enough, probably. 

“Something is better than nothing,” he smiles. “Have you been spending any time outside? The weather has been really nice lately.” 

My throat starts to feel tight and I struggle to swallow past it. “Some. During the day.” Not at night.  _ Never at night.  _

“Good, good. And how have you been sleeping?” 

I think back to the mattress in my room, and I freeze.  _ The knife. Being held down. The drips of blood, splattering against my face. Oh god, Katniss--  _

“Peeta,” his voice drops a little softer, but I can’t see past the memories that are fogging my vision. My fingers on his throat. No, her throat. _ Katniss, oh god, Katniss.  _ “Do you mind telling me if you’ve been having any nightmares?” 

My eyes are burning again, and I grasp at the pillows beneath me. I squeeze at them, scrambling to latch on to something. Anything. “Yes,” I gasp out, because I’m stuck in one now. 

“Peeta?” Dr. Aurelius prompts again. “Can you look at me?” 

_ No, no no no.  _ I shake my head and lean forward to tuck my chest against my legs. I smell his breath, rotting like death, burning my nostrils. I need to move, I need to hide--

“Peeta it’s okay, you’re safe,” I can hear him moving closer, but I can’t see him through the blur of tears. “You’re with me, Dr. Aurelius. You’re in my office. Everything is okay. You’re safe.” 

He’s repeating the words over and over like they mean something, but they don’t. I can hear Snow’s deranged laugh, echoing in my ears. I can see Katniss as she gasps for air, as she claws against my hands to get free.  _ I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.  _

“What was an accident, Peeta?” 

_ Did I say that out loud?  _

“I didn’t mean to,” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory, but it doesn’t work. “It was a nightmare.” My voice is weak and scratchy again, and I have to force the words out when they get stuck in my throat. 

There’s a moment of silence, but then something else fills the room. I don’t recognize it, but the jarring noise is enough to break through the haze. 

“Peeta listen to that. Can you hear it?” He prompts, and I scrub my hands down my face.  _ What is that?  _ “Can you hear it? Listen close…” 

It’s a gentle sound. Tinkling notes, like chimes. Music? It’s  _ music.  _ “What is it?” I shudder in gasp, confused.  _ What is that? Why is there music playing? _

“It’s music. Focus on it. Tell me what you hear.” 

“P-piano,” I swallow. “I think.” 

“Good. What does it sound like?” he prompts, and when I wipe away the moisture from my eyes, he comes back into focus. 

“I don’t know,” shaking my head, my hands creep into my hair. “It’s high. High pitched but quiet still.”

“What else? How does it sound?” 

“Soft. It sounds… soft,” the music is creeping louder, slowly building. The notes are swaying together, back and forth. Swirling together and becoming one continuous sound.  _ How long has it been since I’ve listened to music?  _ Katniss played it in her car, but I wasn’t paying attention, then. Not like he’s telling me to now.

“If you listen close, you can tell that the music is right here, in this room. Right here with us. It’s safe. Those memories can’t get to you now, no matter how real they feel.”

“It’s safe,” I nod, hoping that’s what he’s looking for. It might be safe here, but I’m not. I’m a danger to everyone now. 

“Can you look at me now?” when I do, he smiles. “Good. I’m sorry that I asked that question.” 

_ He’s sorry? Sorry.  _ The word still sounds foreign to my ears after so long. “I--Okay,” I shake my head, trying to scatter the thoughts. I don’t know what to say now. I don’t know how he pulled me back to reality so quickly, or how he knew to use that music like an anchor. While my memories battered me around like angry ocean waves, it steadied me. Even now, the sound still plays from a nearby speaker, and I can’t help but let out all the air in my chest. 

“Has that happened more than once?” he asks, but I don’t know if he’s talking about the memories or the nightmares or the way I almost strangled Katniss. 

“Some,” looking down at the carpet beneath my shoes, I drag my eyes across the texture of the fibers, trying to find a pattern in the static.

“Would you be interested in trying some medications that might help?” 

_ Medications.  _ My head is shaking a hard  _ no _ before my mouth catches up. “I don’t like--I don’t like pills that make me feel weird.” 

“These won’t make you feel weird,” he tries to assure me. “But they can probably help with the nightmares, if you’re willing to try. And some of your other symptoms.” 

I don’t answer, and he follows my gaze to the floor. “How about this… I’ll give you a few samples, and if you want to try them, you can. If you don’t like them, you can stop. If you don’t want to at all, that’s fine. It’s your choice, but you can think about it and decide when you get home.” 

_ Home. Home. Home.  _ Katniss and her house are the closest things I have to a home, and I’ve ruined everything. I won't have a home for long, will I? 

_ Do it for her _ , I hear Haymitch echo through my head, and I sniff. Even if it’s only temporary, I need to try. 

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr @ ambpersand!


	6. Six - Katniss

I can’t stop seeing the terror in his eyes. When he opened them to realize what was happening, when they flickered down to his hands around my neck, to his fingers pressing into my throat. He was frozen, just like that, for the briefest of moments. But it was enough for me to scramble away. 

I still don’t know what I said to him to make his features crumple into something so grief-stricken, but I had to get away. Instinct kicked in, fueling me with adrenaline so I could get to safety at all costs. I couldn’t walk, barely crawling across the floor to safety while I sucked in ragged lungfuls of air. It felt like I was going to pass out, and even though the relief of pulling his fingers from my throat was instant…. I can still feel the pressure. 

For hours, I shook. My limbs trembled like dried leaves in the breeze. I could hear his sobs through the thin walls of the house, but fear sat like a cold weight in my chest. Anchoring me in my room, keeping me from taking any steps toward him. 

Not now. Not like this. 

I know my throat must be bruised, but I can’t bring myself to look in the mirror. The ghost of his touch is still heavy on my neck, even now. I don’t know what time it is, but the sun has come up, and the only noise in the house is Peeta’s occasional cries. Muffled whimpers come from the other room, echoing through the air like a constant reminder. With every one, my heart cracks open a little further. I feel gutted, torn apart and left to pick up the pieces by myself. But I can’t. I can’t go to him. 

Finally, when my joints get stiff from sitting all curled up in a ball on the floor, with my back to the door, I force myself to move. A quick glance at my door handle sends a small pinprick of guilt blooming in my chest. I locked it before the latch was fully clicked into place. Before I slid down to the floor and hugged my knees, trying so hard to catch my breath. To steady my heart before it burst out of my chest. My head was pounding from the sudden rush of blood, and I didn’t think twice about protecting myself. I had to. 

Now, though, I hate the way it feels. Like I’m not safe in my own home. That Peeta is dangerous.  _ No, _ I self-correct. He  _ is  _ dangerous, and he just proved that to me. I was an idiot for believing otherwise, for pretending that he and I could live this happy little life, tucked away in my house while he suppressed his demons. 

As I pull myself to my feet, my stomach churns. Nausea sends bile inching up my throat, and I have to force it back down with a few steady swallows. The mixture of fear, grief, and sadness has made my stomach feel like a heavy pit and my body wants to purge it from my system any way it can. 

_ Shower.  _ I tell myself.  _ Just go shower. Something normal. One step at a time.  _ Isn't that what you're supposed to do to feel better? Get back to a normal routine? Maybe the hot water will wash away the sensation of his hands. Of being choked so hard that black spots filled my vision. The thought of it, remembering it so vividly, is enough to make my hands start to shake again. 

But I manage to get into the master bathroom, the one connected to my bedroom. The safety of it isn’t lost on me, giving me a reprieve from having to venture farther out into the house. From having to see Peeta right now. I can’t, because I know if I do, he’ll see the one thing I don’t want him to. 

Fear. 

Fear of him. Of what he’s capable of. Of who he is, when I’ve worked so hard to help him pretend that he could have a normal life here with me. I didn’t want to treat him like a monster, the same way everyone in town has been. Pointing and whispering and keeping their distance. Giving him a wide berth, like he’s something to be scared of. But maybe they had the right idea, and I was too blind to the dangers in front of me all along. 

_ No,  _ I remind myself with a hard shake of my head.  _ I saw the regret on his face. He didn’t mean to.  _ He even said so, when he cried out for me but I didn’t stop running, trying to get as far from him as possible. 

When I climb under the hot spray of the shower, I sink back down to the floor. My legs can’t hold me right now, when they’re wobbling and weak from the aftereffects of such a surge of adrenaline. The sound of the water hitting the tile is comforting, padding me with enough white noise that I can’t hear anything or anyone else. Maybe for a moment I can pretend that I’m okay… That we’re both okay, even when I know we’re not. 

* * *

As I step out of the shower, I know what I need to do. I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw and burning, but it was enough to help me realize that I can’t do this alone. And there’s only one person I know who can help. 

“What?” he answers on the third ring, his voice rough with sleep. I still don’t know what time it is, and I’m too tired to care. At least if it’s morning, he’s not drunk yet. I’m so exhausted it feels like it’s taking every ounce of energy I have left in my body to continue standing. I just want to bury myself under a mountain of blankets and fall asleep so I don’t have to deal with the push and pull of sadness and fear that’s still battling for dominance in my chest. 

“I need your help,” my own voice isn’t much better, and I hope he thinks it’s because I’ve just got a sore throat. “Please.” 

I’ll tell him the rest when he gets here, but for now, it’s enough. 

“Okay.” 

It only takes Haymitch a few minutes to unlock the door with the spare key from underneath the mat and come clomping through my house. Nothing about him is subtle, but I breathe a sigh of relief at his steady footsteps.  _ He’s here. It’s okay.  _

My fingers are still shaky when I reach to unlock my bedroom door, and his old haggard face is clouded with hesitant curiosity when I pull it open.

“Shit,” he curses softly. “What happened?” 

My throat must be bruised pretty badly for him to get that reaction. I wouldn’t know, because I still haven’t allowed myself to look in the mirror. I don’t want to see it. 

“He had a nightmare,” I manage to croak out. “and I got too close.” 

“Sweetheart,” he reaches out, but stops his hand halfway. Usually I hate it when he calls me that, like I’m his surrogate daughter or something since he lost his so long ago. But now… It feels okay. It’s the way he’s looking at me that I can’t stand, his eyes sad and full of pity. Pity for me, that I should have known better. “Are you okay?”

“As good as I can be, I guess,” I swallow, wincing at the pain. It’s getting worse, and I’m sure the bruise is blooming darker with each passing hour. “It was…. I think it was a nightmare, at least. It must have been something he went through before. But he was  _ screaming _ , Haymitch…” 

My eyes begin to cloud with tears when I think about it. The way Peeta sounded was so helpless. So lost. Like he was trying to scream for help when he knew no one would hear him.  _ Is that what he lived with for six years? _

“Come here,” he grabs my shoulder and pulls me into a hug before I know what’s happening. My arms hang limp at my sides, but it feels nice to be pulled into his embrace. Warm and safe, like he might be able to make things okay in a way that I can’t. His voice is soft when he speaks again, and it sends another wave of moisture to my eyes. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it. When those nightmares happen…. You don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”

He knows it from experience. It’s why he sleeps with a knife, and why he stays up all night drinking until he blacks out into a deep sleep where the memories can’t get to him. 

“I thought,” I choke, blinking the tears down my cheeks. “I thought I could help him. That I should wake him up and--” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he cuts me off. “What happened after you tried to wake him up?” 

“He grabbed me,” I begin to tremble at the memory. “It happened so fast. He just--he reached out and had his hands on my neck before I even knew what was happening.” 

My voice sounds so weak and broken, and I grit my teeth. I’m not the one that should be hurting right now. I know, logically, that Peeta has to be losing his mind that he almost killed me, that and then I ran away from him. But the knowledge does little to soothe the fear that’s gripping my chest. 

“It’s okay,” Haymitch repeats again, his hand coming to rub small circles on my back through the thin material of my shirt. “You’re okay. Did he wake up before you passed out?” 

“Yeah,” I sniff in confirmation. “He sort of froze, I guess, when he opened his eyes and saw it was me. I managed to get him off just in time, but…” He waits for a few seconds, giving me time to find the words. “His face was… He was horrified. He tried to reach out and help me but I ran away. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get away from him fast enough.” 

The silence of my room echoes around us, punctuated only by the slight whistle of air as I try to breathe through my stuffy nose. 

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine,” he repeats, but I think it’s only because he doesn’t know what else to say. “You’re okay, that’s all that matters.” 

“No, it’s not,” I cry and push him away. “He’s not okay, Haymitch. He needs help and I… I can’t do it. I can’t give it to him right now. Not like this. But I just… I don’t know what to do. He doesn’t have anyone.” 

_ He doesn’t have anyone,  _ my voice cracks on the last word, punctuating the hard truth. 

“Well I’m here now,” Haymitch corrects me. “He’s got you if you still want him here, but he’s got me too. He’s not alone.” 

“Of course I want him here,” I shake my head and wipe away the stupid tears on my face with a closed fist. “I’m not going to kick him out onto the streets. He’s got nothing.” 

“Well, he’s got us then. If you’re not going to send him off, then we’ve got to get him the help he needs.” 

“I don’t know how,” my shoulders sag with the admission. 

“Has he been going to therapy?” the question is straightforward, and I appreciate that Haymitch isn’t wasting any time trying to pretend. Not like I was. 

“No,” I shake my head. “Not that I know of. He doesn’t like going to the doctor…. He had a flashback yesterday when they were pulling out his stitches.” 

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Kid goes through that much shit and then doesn’t talk about it to anybody? It’s no wonder he’s having nightmares.” 

“I didn’t want to make him do anything he doesn’t want to,” I say. “He had six years of that already.”

“Listen,” he sets his hands on my shoulders and levels me with a hard look. “There’s a big difference between pushing someone to do something because it’s what they need, and trying to make someone do something for your own sick enjoyment.” 

_ I guess so.  _ When I don’t respond, he drops his arms. “Get some sleep, girl. I’ll take care of him today.” 

Even though I was wide awake with fear and adrenaline earlier, I can barely keep my eyes closed now. It makes me feel guilty, almost, the way my body sags as soon as I drop down onto the mattress. 

“You’ll take care of him? Even if he says no?” I need to know that someone will make sure Peeta is okay, now that I can’t. His cries have gone silent, and it’s almost worse now, not knowing what he’s doing in his room. 

“Even if he says no,” Haymitch confirms, his voice going soft again. “Do you want me to lock this?” 

When he motions down to the door handle, I force out a nod. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the right choice. I need the extra barrier right now, so I can try to go to sleep and know that I’m at least somewhat safe. When it clicks shut behind him, I breathe out the air I’ve been holding in my lungs, and the weight of the morning settles deeper on to my shoulders. 

Maybe if I sleep I can stop reliving the moment when I thought I might die, only to be saved by the sudden terror in Peeta’s eyes when he woke up. 

* * *

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, only that I can hear the light sounds of footsteps from across the house. The sun isn’t shining into the window anymore, which must mean that it’s well into the evening. Laying still, I listen. I try to focus on the sounds around me before the memories can come flooding back. I know they will, especially since my throat feels raw and tight. Every pained swallow is a reminder. 

There’s two pairs of feet shuffling around. In either the kitchen or the living room, I’m not totally sure. The master bedroom is at the back of the house, tucked away at the opposite end from where Peeta must be. And Haymitch too, now that I’ve slowed my breathing down. I can hear the differences in the pacing. Two heavy footsteps, shuffling around, scraping the soles of his heavy boots on the wooden floor. Then another solid step, but this one more careful and precise, followed by the soft thump of a crutch. 

What are they doing now? What have they been doing while I’ve been sleeping, dead to the world, as I try to forget what happened this morning? Making dinner, maybe? It’s probably been at least 24 hours since I last ate, but the thought of food sends a wave of nausea through my stomach. Blinking up at the ceiling, I stretch out my jaw and wince. It’s stiff and sore, and when I lightly press my fingers against the skin on my neck, I have to stifle a gasp. 

_ Shit.  _ I need to see how bad it is, as much as I don’t want to know. It only takes a few steps for me to reach the bathroom, and I force my eyes up to take a good look. It’s bad. Not any worse than I thought it would be, but bad enough. The delicate skin is swollen and red, tinged blue and purple with the bruise that outlines the shape of Peeta’s hands. 

Should I go to the doctor?  _ No,  _ they’ll ask too many questions if I do. Even going out in public--

_ Oh no…  _ Public. Public means work, which means I’ll have to face Gale with a big black bruise wrapped around my neck on Monday morning. There’s no way the marks will fade in the next day, and I know if he sees them… 

_ No.  _ He won’t. I won’t let him, because I know what he’ll do. He’ll blow up and overreact, and come knock down my front door like he’s the big bad wolf. I’ll never live it down, either. Because he was  _ right.  _ Peeta is dangerous, and I was being blind. 

Sucking in a shuddering breath, I blink a few times to clear away the moisture that’s starting to sting at the corner of my eyes. I can’t sink back into another crying fit again. I had my moment this morning, and now I need to figure out what I’m going to do next. Keep hiding in my room? A prisoner in my own home? The thought sobers me immediately… Peeta was a prisoner, but I won’t be. I  _ know _ he regrets what he did--I could see it in his face as soon as his eyes shot open. I could hear it all morning when sobbed, and when he reached out for me when I scrambled away. But as much as I understand it logically, the thought of facing him now is still terrifying.

I have to, though. I have to take back some semblance of control. I need to go get some ice for my neck, and to drink some water so my throat doesn’t feel so raw. Then, I can come back to my room and figure out my next step. 

I can hear them a little more clearly once I open my bedroom door, but they aren’t aware of my presence until I reach the living room and peer around the corner. Their voices are hushed, and they sit at the dining room table with a pile of paperwork between them. Haymitch’s face is screwed tight with confusion, but he doesn’t glance up at my approach.

“Mornin’,” he greets even though the wall clock reads close to 8 PM, but Peeta’s eyes shoot over to me in an instant. 

“Katniss,” when he tries to stand he stumbles a little, grasping for his crutch that’s leaning against the nearest wall. “I--” 

I jump back at the sudden movement, and the words die against his lips when he realizes what I’ve done. We’re still several feet apart, but my natural instinct is to dodge him. His face falls, crumpling into something that I can’t stand to look at, even when guilt blooms deep inside my chest. I can’t apologize for wanting to protect myself, and I force my eyes back toward Haymitch instead. 

“Hi,” my voice is hoarse and raspy. I don’t know what else to say, and in the awkward silence that follows, Peeta sinks back into his seat. 

“There’s food on the counter if you’re hungry,” Haymitch points at a few open takeout boxes by the fridge. If it were any other day, I might laugh. The two of them don’t know how to cook, and he’s a sucker for the woman who owns the local Chinese restaurant. 

“I’m good, thanks,” I force down a swallow and go to find a clean glass from the cabinets. “I just wanted to get some water.” 

And ice, for my neck. Maybe some painkillers too, now that I’m moving around a bit more. 

It isn’t until I’m taking a sip that Haymitch speaks again, and I glance over to see him giving Peeta a pointed look. 

“We ran some errands today. Got some stuff done.” 

Peeta’s cheeks are growing red, but his eyes are locked on the pile of papers in front of him. 

“I met with my therapist,” the admission is almost a whisper. “He gave me some medicine.”

_ Oh.  _ Haymitch got him to go to therapy? And on such short notice? “Okay. That’s…. Good.” 

The words are a little forced, and I try not to stare down at my feet. What am I supposed to say? 

“I’m going back tomorrow too. And probably on Monday. Haymitch said he would take me.” 

When I raise my eyebrows at Haymitch, he shrugs easily. “It’s not like I’ve got a busy social calendar.” 

“He took me to the bank, too,” Peeta finally turns to look at me. “I deposited that check. Like you said I should.” 

I know he’s trying to make a point, but I can’t let myself think any further about it. “That’s good.” 

The repeated phrase hangs in the air between us, but I’m at a loss now. I don’t know which way to go, and--

“I’m sorry,” the way he says it is obvious that he can’t hold it in any longer, but before I can even take another breath, tears are running down his cheeks. “I”m so sorry, Katniss--I didn’t mean to, and I wish I could take it back… I’m so sorry.” 

When he fists his hands in the front of his shirt, I can feel my heart beginning to break again. 

“I’m okay,” I try to tell him. It’s the only thing I can tell him, because I can’t say that _ it’s  _ okay. It’s not and we both know it. 

“It won’t ever happen again, I promise. If you don’t want me here anymore, I--” 

I cut him off with a hard shake of my head. As much as I’m hurt right now, I know the fear will eventually fade. It has to. My fear is temporary, but his safety isn’t. “No, I shouldn’t have touched you while you were having a nightmare,” that part is on me. It would be different if he came and attacked me out of the blue, but I know he didn’t realize what he was doing at the time. “But you don’t have to leave. That hasn’t changed.” 

He doesn’t respond, instead wiping the tears from his cheeks with shaking hands. Finally, he nods. 

“I’m going to stay here for a little while, I think. You mind if I crash on your couch?” Haymitch asks. 

“Go ahead,” I agree. It feels better knowing that someone else will be here with us, and I hate that I’m comforted by the thought. I should be able to take care of myself by now, shouldn’t I?

“I’m going to keep helping Peeta with this insurance paperwork,” Haymitch pretends not to notice me edging towards the doorway. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Thanks,” I tell him with a slight nod, taking the opportunity to head back to my room. I forgot to grab ice, but I don’t care. It’s probably too late to make a difference, anyway.

As soon as the door is closed behind me, I breathe out a sigh of relief, even though I’m shaking. I can feel the water glass trembling in my hands, and I know I should set it down before the liquid spills over the edge and gets on the varnish on the floors. But I can’t move for a moment, and when I close my eyes I see Peeta’s face again. 

_ I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back.  _

So do I. 

* * *

Sunday passes by quicker than I expect it to, considering I spend the day locked in my room again. It’s a cowardly choice, but the safety and serenity of my bed is too comforting to try to leave. I venture out when I hear the front door close, and scavenge through the leftovers in the fridge before Peeta and Haymitch return. He left a note, half scribbled on the pad of paper by my stack of mail. 

_ Taking Peeta to his therapist, then for a few errands. Will take a few hours.  _

I know what he’s doing, by insisting on getting Peeta out of the house. So I can have a few moments to myself where I don’t have to feel on edge, and I can relax my guard a little bit. I appreciate it, and I manage to eat a late lunch, get a shower, and load my nightstand with snacks before I hear them return again. 

It shouldn’t be surprising, then, when I find myself wide awake at midnight because I’ve spent the day reading and napping in bed. 

_ And avoiding your problems _ , I think with a grimace. That’s exactly what it is, too. Avoidance. 

Climbing out from under the blanket, I stretch my neck. The swelling has started to go down, and by morning I’m sure that it will be subsided enough that with some makeup and my hair down, it might not be noticable. Or maybe I’ll get lucky and Gale will be too distracted with the Monday shipments that he won’t pay me any attention. 

Maybe. 

As if on cue, my stomach gurgles, rumbling for something of substance--not the dry cereal I was eating by the handful earlier in the evening. 

I can hear Haymitch’s muffled snores through the solid wood of my door, and I can’t help but smile a little bit at the sound. It’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep on my couch, but it’s the first time he’s done it on purpose. He sleeps like the dead, too, so I know when I creep down the hall he won’t wake up, no matter how much noise I make. 

I don’t get that far, though, before I stop in my tracks. My eyes are glued to Peeta’s door. His  _ closed _ door. It takes me a moment to process, because every night for the last week, he’s slept with it open… because he doesn’t like feeling trapped. But now, it’s closed, and the sight of it makes my stomach sink.  _ Did he close the door because of me? Because of what happened?  _

I’m not sure what compels me to do it, but I can’t stop my hand as it lifts and reaches toward the door. I know what I’ll find, even before my fingers wrap around the cold metal knob. 

It’s locked. 

He’s locked himself in his room, because of me.  _ For me.  _

I move through the rest of the motions in a daze, walking into the kitchen and pulling out what’s left of the pizza Haymitch ordered for dinner. I don’t even bother heating it up, and instead lean against the counter and shovel it into my mouth in huge, gulping bites. I’m suddenly struck by all the things Peeta must be experiencing at once, and how he’s handling it all while I hide out in my room. 

_ Has he had pizza since coming home?  _ I never ordered it, but I remember the way his eyes lit up when I offered him potato chips.  _ Did Haymitch let him pick out the toppings he wanted? Or did he just agree to whatever Haymitch ordered?  _ It’s a stupid thing to become fixated on, but it rocks me to my core. It’s so simple, but it’s a reminder of his words to me just the other night. 

_ They took everything from me,  _ he said. And they did. But now he has me, and Haymitch. And his therapist. And maybe with enough time, he’ll get it all back. 

He has to. 

* * *

In the morning, I dig through the drawers and cabinets in my bathroom for the old makeup that Prim made me buy years ago when I went to prom with Gale. It’s probably dried out and clumped up by now, but it’s better than nothing. 

Once I find it stuffed back behind a bottle of expired cough syrup, I frown. It’s separated, but thankfully after a few seconds of hard shaking, the liquid foundation mixes back to a normal color. I don’t remember quite how to use it the same way she showed me, but I dab it on my neck in heavy spots and try my best to blend it in with my fingertips. It takes a few tries, but after a little while, the worst of the bruise is covered and I step away from the mirror, somewhat satisfied. 

Usually I keep my long hair braided back, just because I hate the way it sticks to my neck and gets in the way when I’m trying to tend to the plants in the greenhouse. Today, though, I brush it out around my shoulders and fluff it up the way I see other women do, until it obscures the sides of my throat. It’s an okay attempt at camouflage, but it will have to do. My only other option is to put on a turtleneck, and in the heat of August, that would be more suspicious than helpful. 

Since it’s Monday, Gale will most likely be helping to unload the special deliveries for this week’s jobs. With any luck, it will be pallets and pallets full of specialty plants that require him to spend the day counting for inventory and getting them situated for planting, far away from the front of the nursery where I’ll be working. I just need to get through today and tomorrow, then he’ll be offsite with the rest of the landscaping crew. 

Haymitch is awake and bleary-eyed on my couch when I emerge from my bedroom, but Peeta is nowhere to be found. 

“He’s still asleep,” Haymitch supplies before I can ask. 

“How is he?” 

I busy myself with the coffeemaker, even though I don’t drink the stuff. Haymitch does, and so does Prim when she visits home during the holidays. He waits until he joins me in the kitchen before answering, his voice quiet. 

“Not great,” he answers truthfully. “But getting better. I think getting him to the therapist helped. He needs somebody to talk to about this stuff.”

“He talked to me,” I shrug and grab a mug from the cabinet, but then amend the statement. “Some.”

He told me  _ some.  _ I don’t want to explain any further, because they aren’t my stories to tell, and thankfully Haymitch doesn’t push. 

“Well he’s going to be talking to that doctor a lot. Wants to see him as much as possible for the next few weeks. Cleared out his schedule so I could bring him in every day or two.”

“Every day or two?” I spin on my heel. That seems…  _ Well,  _ I stop myself.  _ Is it really much? _ Or is it what he needs after six years of captivity and torture? 

“For now, at least. Got him started on some meds, too. He started taking them last night. But…” when his voice trails off, worry begins to grow in my stomach. 

“But what?” I all but demand. 

“The other day, when I first got here… He wasn’t good. He was in a pretty bad spot.”

“In a bad spot?” I try, but I don’t get it. 

“I don’t think that boy has got much will to live, Katniss. He was torn up and ready to walk out of this house and end it all so he couldn’t hurt you again.” 

My shocked gasp stings the back of my throat, and I reach for the counter to steady myself. “He said that?”

When he shakes his head, a sad expression falls across his features. “Not in so many words, but I recognized it.”

I don’t know what to say, and my throat starts to feel tight again but I know it’s not because of the bruising. 

“Hopefully the meds will help, but we need to keep an eye on him. They probably won’t make much of a difference for a few weeks at least.” 

I barely hear Haymitch, because I’m suddenly remembering the cop that came by late last week. The one with the check, who said that weird thing about the house burning down.  _ What was it that he said?  _ I have to search my mind for the words, but they come soon enough. 

_ “Whether or not it was an accident…”  _

“Haymitch, I--” I stop. Should I tell him? I have to. I don’t even know if the suspicion is correct, but he should at least know. “Last week, an officer came by with that check for Peeta. But he said something…” 

“Yeah?” he asks, reaching forward for the empty mug that’s still in my hands and moves me out of the way so he can pour himself the coffee. I’ve just been standing there, completely useless and distracted from the task. 

“It was weird, but I think maybe…” I have to force the words out past my lips, because even thinking them feels like a betrayal. “I think that maybe Peeta might have set that house on fire.”

Haymitch goes completely still, but doesn’t turn to look back at me. “What do you mean?” 

“That cop said something… About whether or not the fire was an accident. Peeta didn’t say anything, but it was almost like he was implying that it  _ wasn’t  _ an accident. That maybe he did it on purpose.” 

Silence falls between us for a few moments before Haymitch finally moves, raising his hand to rub at his face. 

“You think he did it?” 

“I think that if you’re right, and he--” I can’t even bring myself to say the words out loud. “Maybe he did start the fire somehow, but maybe he didn’t mean to survive.”

“Shit,” Haymitch curses, leaning forward to rest his hands on the counter in front of him while he processes what I’ve just said. 

“I don’t want to make assumptions, but it would make sense,” I sigh. 

“It would,” he finally agrees. “You spend that long in hell, and I’m sure you’re ready to end it by whatever means necessary.”

I don’t have anything else to add, so I nod. 

“You think we should talk to him about it?” 

“I have no idea,” I don’t know what to do, or what to say. We’re in uncharted waters now. 

“Me either,” turning, he takes a long drink from his coffee. When his eyes wander over to my neck, he suppresses a chuckle. “Nice job with the makeup.”

“I figured it was either that or calling off sick for the next few days.”

“Smart girl.” 

* * *

Thankfully, it takes Gale until mid-afternoon before he ventures up to the front of the store where I’m sitting behind the register, tallying up the inventory of the floral cooler. 

“How was your weekend?” he greets, sweaty and out of breath. He’s got a half-empty bottle of water clutched in his hand, and he takes a seat on the stool beside me to enjoy the air conditioning. 

When I pulled in that morning he was already in the back of the greenhouse, unloading the truck with the week’s deliveries. All I got was a quick wave in my direction before he got back to work, which I returned before hurrying inside. It’s another hot and humid day, and I’m surprised it’s taken him this long to venture inside for a break. 

“It was fine,” I respond, keeping my head bent forward so my hair falls down in front of my shoulders. “Just hung out at home, mostly. You?”

“Went out with Thom on Saturday, then spent yesterday with my mom and Posy.”

“How are they doing?” I ask, because I know he doesn’t have a ton of time to spend with his youngest sibling. That, and if I keep his attention focused elsewhere, he won’t look too closely at me. 

“Good, Posy’s about to start fourth grade. She’s really excited. Said she was going to try out for the soccer team this year,” when he grins, it stretches all the way across his face. Even though he’s fifteen years older than her, he loves her to pieces. 

“I hope she makes it.” 

“Me too.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the slight scratch of my pen on the paper in front of me, and fear starts to grow deep in my stomach.  _ Is he looking at me now? Trying to peer around the curtain of my hair so he can figure out why my neck looks so funny? _

“You never wear your hair down anymore,” Gale says, leaning forward a little. My eyes are down, but I can see the way he’s tilting his head out of the corner of my vision. 

I try for a shrug, hoping it’s casual and not as tense and forced as I feel. “Had a headache this morning. I figured the braid pulling on my scalp wouldn’t help.” 

Glancing up at him, he gives me a slight frown. “Want me to order lunch? Some caffeine might help.” 

“That would be great, actually. Thanks,” my smile is genuine, but not because of his offer. Rather, it’s because he nods and turns away to grab his phone, completely oblivious to my secret. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and a huge thank you to my beta and favorite person, Ophelia. Come visit me on tumblr @ambpersand!


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